The Unkiss
by EnjolrasLovedEponine
Summary: She remembered it clearly. It happened. By God it did. He meant it. And she meant it. It was everything to her. It was what influenced her now, leading her back to him. And it never happened. EnjolrasxEponine
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello again Les Mis fandom! It's been years! I'm back with another Énjonine fic, this time one with a much deeper meaning and plenty of subtext and symbolism. But you will see that as you read. Anyway, enjoy and please review my story!

Ch 1

In the Café Musain on the second floor, Éponine sat in the corner of the room while she watched and listened as the Amis chattered on about their plans for revolt, her eyes glancing from Marius to the book she held in her lap. Gavroche was with Courfeyrac who was showing him plans on paper. She wondered if Courfeyrac knew that her little brother couldn't read. She yawned, her body weary but would not allow her tired mind sleep. So instead she eyed Marius, pondering if he ever thought of anything else—she, that perfect little Lark was always on his mind, that much was quite clear from that same lost, far-away look in his dark eyes—but did he consider her? Did he notice her, recognize her? Did he see that she was there? Éponine pretended that the smile he held was for her.

"Marius!"

Éponine nearly jumped from her seat, and Marius' head snapped into attention.

There was a slight crease in Enjolras' brow, and Éponine wondered with mild fascination if that line was permanent. His deep set eyes were sparked with impatience, and his bitter stare was enough to melt Marius' smile.

"Focus," Enjolras said. From her seat she could see the raised veins and muscles in his neck.

"We need your help in securing the gunpowder and ammunition." Enjolras went on, his annoyance fading, the ring of passion swelling as he continued to reveal his plans, his delusional ideas of victory. Éponine lazily turned back to her book, staring at the letters, attempting to make sense of the scribbles on paper, but the revolutionary's voice was still in her ears. His words stirred and encouraged the Amis, his tone laced with empowerment, confidence, faith, hope for his beloved France, and if Éponine had the slightest of any of it, she would stand up and cheer with the rest of the men and her little brother. But instead she remained quiet, however unable to keep from listening to the golden man's endearing voice.

 _He is so calm,_ Éponine thought, glancing at Enjolras. _Despite his seriousness, he looks happy in his determination. But of course, he's not always so restricted—his mask of glass—at least not in front of his friends. He's their golden leader, perfection._ She wondered if his friends had ever pulled back the layers of darkness behind the veil of light. Did they know him like she did? She listened as the room hushed to murmurs as talk of plans, strategies, and ideas rose.

"On the first of June—"

"We will need a distraction—"

"—citizens to help us—"

"—the armory..."

Éponine could not listen to them anymore, all of their big plans, their wild hope, blind faith, and for what? The poor have no strength to fight. But she would not think of that now and thought of other things. She felt out of place here in the Musain, surrounded by people she had little in common with. She came for Maruis. While he did not come to the meetings as often as he should, Éponine accompanied him, and she could see that he appreciated her company. But now she waited, waited for nothing in particular all the while refusing sleep. She picked the dirt beneath her fingers with little interest until her ears picked Marius' voice out from the rest of the men, even above Grantaire's drunken babbling. His voice was even, calm and joyful, and then she heard the name, the source of his utter foolishness. Cosette. Cos- _ette_. Éponine's teeth clenched, her tongue pressed against them to swallow any sounds that threatened to be heard.

Slowly she turned, her eyes searching for him again—maybe she could capture his attention this time. And in her search her eyes caught Enjolras' heated stare as he stood, his palms flat on the table, and at that moment Éponine could feel her blood thin, leave her face, a naughty child caught in a place they don't belong. His stare seemed to judge her, accuse her—of what she had not the slightest idea—but nevertheless, where she would typically defy any demeaning look, in this instance under the weight of his blue eyes, even from across the café, Éponine could not help but feel small and slightly disheartened.

He quickly turned away from her, a look of frustration in his eyes as he scanned back over papers and scrolls. Éponine stared at him, confused by his colder demeanor than usual—though they hardly exchanged words in daylight hours, he never showed any indication of sheer dislike or distain until now.

The minutes turned into an hour, and before long Éponine could not keep herself from sleep. When she awoke the sun had set—how late was it?—and the Musain was still alit with candles though nearly everyone had gone. She stood, glancing around for Marius, but the only man left was Enjolras.

"He's not here." His voice was stern, hinted with annoyance, and he did not bother to look up at her as he sat at the table, writing.

"M'sieur—"

"No one is here so don't call me that. And before you ask, the answer is no." The crease on his forehead seemed deeper in the flickering candlelight. "I don't know where he went. And frankly, I don't care to know."

Éponine frowned but said nothing, glancing at the candles about the room. She leaned against the little table, her hand flat on the surface as her finger tapped against the wood. "Will you be coming by tonight?" She asked.

"You know not to ask me that."

She folded her arms across her chest, "Nobody is around to hear me. Don't you think this secrecy is a bit extreme? Our agreement interferes with my work."

Enjolras' grip on his quill whitened his knuckles. "You agreed regardless. We have been meeting for months."

She dropped her arms, her tone firm, "It conflicts with my schedule."

He did not reply, not that she expected him to, she hardly expecting anything from the revolutionary.

"You will inspire no one if you can't even look at them."

Enjolras scoffed, "What are you talking about?"

"You speak for the poor, but you can't even look at one." She took the few steps to cross the room and stood in front of him, the table all that separated them. "Even in a public place you can't look at me without disgust."

Enjolras' eyes flashed with sudden intensity as he looked up at her to which Éponine smirked, satisfied, and folded her arms across her chest. But then that intensity vanished into something softer, and it surprised Éponine to see the dark rings, the same ones she had under his eyes.

"Éponine, are you finished?" Enjolras returned evenly.

Éponine tilted up her chin, refusing to let go of his slight. He sighed and stood, gathering his things and shoving them into his satchel. His movements were slow and lethargic as he turned his back to her, "What do you want?"

"I'm curious, M'sieur Enjolras, are you capable of any other feeling, a true feeling other than bitterness?"

She left before he could face her. She left before she could see his expression, and she imagined the shock on his face which was appeasement enough for her. His angered expression she pictured resulted in her grin, even as he called out her name. She ignored it and left the warmth and light of the café for the cold night.

* * *

Éponine hadn't been receiving many customers tonight, but then again, many of the girls were struggling. There was a tension in the air, a stillness that seemed to leave all of Paris on edge ever since the Prime Minister died nearly a week ago. _Stay away from the wells, the sewers, the government is poisoning our water, stay away, protect yourself._ Éponine was always reminded of this, especially at night when the world was eerie and quiet.

After a few hours of no luck, the dark night's chill getting to her, Éponine returned to the brothel, shivering, her shawl affording little resistance to the cold. From across the room, she was mildly, almost pleasantly astonished to see Enjolras sitting in his usual spot in the main entrance by the fire.

Walking over to him, she said, "You came," her tone feigning indifference, hoping he wouldn't catch it. The orange glow of the flames tossed shadows about his face, darkening his eyes. His elbows were up on the table, hands together, he looked lost in thought.

Éponine sat across from him, waiting, and his eyes fell on her. He sighed in aggravation, dropping his arms to rest on the table and leaning back against his chair.

"Grantaire again?" Éponine asked, recognizing that look in his eyes. She did not need for him to nod, but he did anyway.

"I'd kill him if I could, that drunken fool." Enjolras growled.

"Ah yes, the same old thing. He drinks too much and does not care for your brave ideas and hopes of change." Éponine replied dryly.

He rolled his eyes, "Be serious Éponine."

"I am," she said, "But first explain yourself."

"Éponine—"

"Tell me now, or I will walk away." she snapped, "You can't take out your frustrations on me. You were mean that night."

His eyes narrowed, "You don't expect me to believe you prefer a stranger's company to mine."

"I just might!" She retorted and stood from her chair, uncaring of others in the room that turned their heads to stare at her. She stared down at him, enjoying the sight of his discomfort and said, "You need this more than I do."

"Enough with the dramatics." Was his tone a challenge or a surrender? Unsure, she remained standing.

And then his eyes softened into something gentler. There was a fight still in him burning behind his neutral expression that Éponine did not miss. Any other time she would admire his resilience.

"Éppie. Please." His voice was nearly a whisper.

She sat down because she chose to, she told herself, not because he was asking, not because that look in his eyes made her feel guilty.

"I've been under plenty of stress," Enjolras said. "I was wrong to take it out on you. I apologize for that."

She hardly expected any sort of explanation, and as feeble as it was, his was good enough for her. His apology though truly surprised her. No man had ever apologized to her, not for anything. To hear it from Enjolras was the taste of sweets.

They talked for hours. Well he talked and she listened just as always. Or sometimes they didn't talk at all, staring into the flames in the fireplace, the two lost to their thoughts. This was their routine, a constant, something Éponine found herself accustomed to, something she enjoyed. They had been meeting like this for many months now, almost as long as she knew Maruis. And yet, he had been growing more distraught recently, Éponine had noticed. He used to be gentler, kinder, polite, but she could not bring herself to ask of his sudden change. Asking him of his anxiety, of his moods felt entirely like a breech. She already felt a shift in the air, just as she knew he felt, as all of Paris had. Something was going to happen.

She appreciated his company though, more so when he wasn't in one of his moods, which were becoming more and more frequent as the days passed. Not only did his company keep her away from unsavory customers, he was generous in his pay. It was enough to cover an entire night's work, which the other ladies of the brothel were envious of—Éponine could not hide the smug satisfaction she felt at their expense. And while they continued to sit together, Éponine glanced at him, wondering what was laying so heavily on his mind. It must be more than just Grantaire's drunken antics that kept his features hard.

"Tell me what you are thinking," she said.

Enjolras thought for a moment, his mind's wheels turning, and Éponine thought he would not confide in her. But she wanted to know, her curiosity genuine, tinged with concern.

"Grantaire mentioned death," Enjolras said gravely. "He expressed how he felt about dying, and everyone else could not keep silent, not about that. Most were comfortable with dying for our cause."

"Most?"

"Marius said nothing." He did not hide his irritation, "He's a fool too in love to think of anything else."

"Being in love does not make him a fool," Éponine said.

"The fight in him is gone."

"Not everyone cares for the revolution you hold so dear," she said abruptly.

"The revolution is our future. It is a fight for the wellbeing of the working class, for those who are struggling," he replied evenly, "The people need this. They need us to encourage them, and once we have convinced them they will rise with us."

"Your efforts are wasted Enjolras. They are too afraid."

"I do not believe every person is so frightened. The crowds we gather on the streets are large, and those that come have are courageous enough to do so. They will come and fight with all the courage they can muster. Their want, and their anger will outweigh their fear."

"Just because they come to a rally cry, that does not mean they will come to spit Death in the face. You give too much credit to cowards." Éponine said as she leaned forward, her eyes capturing his gaze, "I am of the poor, Enjolras. I know them better than you can hope to understand."

She paused, waiting for his defiance, waiting for him to dissolve her opinion. But he said nothing and she finished. "If you think any of this has a happy ending for anyone, you might want to rethink your little rebellion."


	2. Chapter 2

Ch 2

Enjolras had agreed to change the arrangements of their meetings. He told her that whenever she came to a meeting, he would give her a sign that meant his desire to meet that night. And that sign was a simple one: his red coat. Today he wore it as he and the Amis planned and worked, their voices low and hushed, and while Éponine was curious, she kept to herself, her eyes shifting between Marius and Enjolras every so often.

That night in the brothel, in the room the Madame supplied her with—the cheapest furniture and bedding, there was even a broken chair in the corner that neither the Madame nor Éponine bothered to remove, in the room she paid for with her earnings, she waited. In the room that was barren, void of pleasant memories as any other room she inhabited, she never took clients. Why should she when they preferred the comfort of their own flats and sometimes even fucked her right there in the alley? She felt a sense of pride as she stood in her room, the only thing she could say she owned. She would not have it soiled. Maybe she should light some candles. What would Marius think of this room? What would Enjolras?

"Girl."

Éponine turned to see the stout Madame, her brown, graying hair pulled up into a bun, a few strands loose. Her flesh, that at one time in her life had been taught and smooth, sagged from her bones as if she was beginning to melt. The bodice of her cotton dress seemed to be the only thing keeping her together.

"That client of yours is waiting for you."

Éponine smiled lightly. He kept his word. "Thank you, Madame."

Éponine walked out of her room, down the hall and into the foyer. She expected to see him sitting in his typical spot by the fireplace, but the space was vacant. Her brows furrowed, and she glanced around, searching for him amongst the other men as ladies took them by the hand back to their rooms. But then she spotted him by the red of his overcoat standing by the entrance talking to a woman. Or rather, he was being talked at by a tall red headed woman. Éponine immediately recognized that beautiful auburn hair, her hourglass figure, her elegant dress hugging her frame perfectly. She was too lovely to paint her face, and Éponine was bland in comparison. Abella could steal him, Éponine thought, and her stomach twisted, her blood rushed and boiled.

And then Éponine saw the look on Enjolras' face, and she nearly burst into fits of laughter. Despite Abella's advances, her lovely smile and honeyed words, her tantalizing touches, staring up at him from underneath her long eyelashes in hopes of seducing him, Enjolras said nothing to her. Instead he stared at her with an utter lack of interest, and she saw in his eyes the exasperation threatening to crack his resolve.

"Abella," Éponine began, her hands at her hips. Abella turned and saw her, tilting her chin as she folded her arms across her chest. "You've bored him enough don't you think? I'm sure your mouth could be used for something more towards your skills."

Abella dropped her arms and shifted, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She glanced back at Enjolras and opened her mouth to speak, but he was already taking steps towards Éponine. Abella glared at her before striding off, the taffeta ruffles of her fiery magenta dress shuffling as she went. Éponine looked back at him, and he said nothing, impassive as always. He brushed passed her and headed to the chair by the fire. Following his lead, she sat across from him, leaning back in her chair.

"Did she have anything interesting to say? Or was it her breasts that kept your attention?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm and more annoyance than she'd prefer admit.

"She never had my attention, Éppie." Enjolras replied gruffly, and he did not look away from her.

She could feel her cheeks heating and glanced at her hands in her lap, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, hiding behind the strands of dark hair in her face. "What did you come to talk about?"

The fire sparked and spat, slowly eating away at the logs, its flames licking up and dancing, lighting their faces in orange flickers. It ate at the silence between them, and Éponine waited for him to speak. He glanced at her and then at the fire, his expression grim, and she wondered if this meeting place made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it wasn't so much the place as it was the occupation, her occupation. She would not allow herself to feel insecure about it. She needed this job. She would not allow herself to starve again.

She would not think on it, repressing the thoughts as she did before. Instead she waited on Enjolras and noticed the crease at his brow again. That crease was so often there. Why doesn't he just pay her for it? She mused. The crease would be gone for at least a few hours. He could relax. Maybe he would enjoy it. Maybe she would.

"Would you like something to drink?" She said.

He shook his head, and the silence lingered. His hair was disheveled, his tie loose. Stubble grew on his cheeks, chin, and up his jawline. Purple rings were under his eyes. Marius would never allow himself to look like that. But Marius and Enjolras were nothing alike. Marius did not have his worries, his stress. He was no leader, he did not need to carry such burdens. But where Enjolras was cold, Marius was warm, he was kind, he held love above all else, even his country. Maybe soon he will realize that she loved as he did and loves fiercer than Cosette ever could. Maybe soon he will see her as someone more than a gamine, and she will have her chance.

Enjolras' eyes shifted from the fire to her, but still he said nothing as he stared at her. Frustration was in his features, and the look he gave her brought no warmth. How could someone who loves his country and its people, someone willing to through his life away to ease the suffering of others be so cold, so unfeeling?

"Do you have something to say?" She said.

He blinked and looked away at nothing in particular, shifting his eyes away from her. His face changed again as if her voice called the source of his agitation. He looked at her again, his eyes gentle, lips parted.

"I am afraid."

Her eyes widened momentarily. He was a man of surprises, she gave him that much. "Afraid of what?"

"Failure."

A chill shivered through her. "Failure?" She repeated.

His eyes deep and blue returned to hers, and she hated the look he wore. There was fear beneath his hardened mask. And there was something akin to melancholy too.

"What if I am leading my friends to slaughter? Of all their faith and mine, I cannot shed the feeling." His voice was low, was grave, "What if we fail?"

Éponine's heartbeat slowed, her stomach bunching, her tongue fumbling behind her teeth.

"The day is coming closer," he said. "I do not doubt the citizens. I will never give up on them, but what if it is not enough?"

He is afraid. He was telling her his fears, and she had to offer some counsel. But what could she say? He was a man of marble stone, and she was witnessing his cracks for the first time. She sat and stared her hands, the fire, the table, until her eyes turned blank as she tried to collect her thoughts.

"I shouldn't have come to you," Enjolras stood from his chair, his cross expression returned.

He turned to leave, and Éponine jumped to her feet to pursue him. "Enjolras wait—"

"Spare me, Éponine." He walked out of the brothel.

Éponine stood perplexed in the center of the foyer, stewing from the sting of his rejection. Perhaps she should go to him, follow him and talk to him, attempt to bring him some sort of counsel, comfort. But why should she? He left the brothel, embarrassing her in front of her coworkers. He abandoned her. He left of his own accord and did not want her company. She sighed and raked her fingers through her hair before turning back to sit at table they shared. He hadn't always been so course, so angry, so reserved. But could the stress be his only reason for reticence? She glanced about the room, a few of the other ladies, Abella included, smiled at Éponine. _He left me,_ she thought, _but he'd never favor any of you._ Then she noticed the money he had left behind. She took it. He paid her in full.

* * *

Éponine could not shake the empty feeling that followed her, haunted her from the night before. Her insides twisted in discomfort at the thought of seeing Enjolras as she approached the café. Marius will be there, she told herself, and in any instance that would have been enough to reassure her. Not this time.

When she entered she looked about warily. Gavroche smiled in greeting as he passed by her and existed the café. One of them must have sent him on an errand. Courfeyrac and Joly offered pleasant "hellos" and "how are yous" to which she replied with a small smile, enough to suffice. They welcomed her in, and immediately and much to her displeasure her eyes were drawn to Enjolras. His expression was of indifference as he stared at her before returning to his work. His red coat was missing. Disappointment replaced all other feelings she held in that moment. He will not see her tonight. She will have to take up customers again. She won't see him waiting for her by the fire, will not listen to his voice as he opened up to secrets he shared with no one else. Tonight she will not feel that small sense of pride he invoked. Tonight she is not special.

She blinked the hurt from her eyes, hoping he did not notice, and looked away from him, glancing over faces until she found Marius who was in the corner at a table speaking with Jehan. She could feel Enjolras' eyes following her as she walked across the room to Marius.

"M'sieur Marius," she smiled.

"Ah, Éponine!" He said grinning, "Jehan has helped me find the perfect words to express my love for Cosette."

Her smile faded, "Oh?"

"It was no trouble," remarked the poet. "But I do think we should return to the task at hand." He was referring to the map of Paris laid out on the table before them.

"Yes, yes," Marius replied genially as he stood from his seat, "Momentarily, my friend." He looked back at Éponine who held her breath, forcing a smile, already knowing what Marius had to say.

"Would you be so kind," he said, "as to take this letter to Cosette for me?" He handed her the letter along with a few sous as payment.

She nodded, her heart aching, the letter like stone in her hands, and he thanked her before returning to sit and discuss with Jehan. Éponine stared at the letter and money in her hand. Turning, she glanced at Enjolras and flushed. He was staring at her. Had he been watching the whole time? But there was something in his gaze, something she had no seen before, she could not recognize, and it made her uneasy.

 _No matter,_ she thought, pocketing the letter and the coin. She strode across the room, her eyes downcast, and left the Musain. She walked a few feet before stalling and looking back at the café. Maybe Marius would come for her? Or if she returned Enjolras would be wearing his coat? Her jaw tightened, fighting the hurt that was brewing, succumbing to her rage, and her hand curled tight about the letter in her pocket. She gritted her teeth, chiding herself for her sudden dependency and walked the streets.

As she went, she saw Gavroche walking towards her, his eyes down at the ground while kicking a stone. He trailed behind it and kicked again, a small smile on his lips. He paid Éponine no heed, he hadn't looked up from his stone, and sang. It was a song she had never heard, something ominous even as it came from the mouth of a child. She slowed her walk and listened and watched him as he passed her by.

"The spring is sweeter, under the earth

I know, I know, oh, oh, oh

The steel has dulled, and the iv'ry's cracked

I know, I know, oh, oh, oh

The fire is ice, and the rain falls up

I know, I know, oh, oh, oh

The sun is falling, the flowers rot

The shadows come to dance, my king

The shadows come to play

The shadows come to dance, my friends

The shadows come to stay"

A/N: The song is not mine. I changed the lyrics to fit my story, but I still cannot take credit for it. It is from GRR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch 3

She hated how long she'd been keeping track. A week. She hated that she missed his company—more than she'd prefer to admit—regardless of his moods. She hated that the few times she returned to the Musain, the same dismay, the same hurt, the same rage returned when she saw he had not donned his coat. She went to the café to be with Marius, she reminded herself. And she hated the money Enjolras sent. She was sure it was him. The money came in a sealed envelope with her name on it, always slid underneath her door. It came at random times when she wasn't at the brothel or while she slept, the envelope filled with money that would equate to more than a full night's pay. No one would do such a thing, except Enjolras. She looked with distain every time she laid eyes on the envelope. Each envelope marked the days he would not return to her. But nevertheless, by keeping the money he sent, she felt compelled to uphold her part of the silent contract. She took no other customers.

Except tonight there was no envelope. And so, dressed in velvet and red, she was out and alone again tonight. Éponine wrapped her shawl around herself as she stood on the corner hoping to entice customers. Two men stood in the dark behind her, smoking as they leaned against the wall of a building. Their faces were partially shaded from the hats they wore that, along with the rest of their clothing, were ragged and dingy, the dull colors faded from use, grime, and time. They reeked of smoke and alcohol. They murmured, smirking as puffs of gray billowed into wisps from their mouths, and one finished off a bottle of wine before throwing the empty bottle.

She did not like the looks they gave her, their low chuckles and leering eyes made her feel exposed, uneasy. She covered herself as best she could with her shawl and walked away from them, but the distance did little to prevent their ogling. She did not walk far before she saw a familiar young face approaching her, her blonde hair pulled up into a bun.

"Cerise," Éponine said.

"Éponine, he is looking for you." Cerise said lowly.

"Someone is looking for me?"

Cersie looked around her to see the two shifty men Éponine sought to avoid. The men whistled at them, and Éponine shuddered in disgust at the one that touched himself as he stared at her.

"Are they with you?" Cerise asked, dusting off her dress.

"No." She replied shortly. "Tell me who is looking for—"

"Oh perfect!" She brushed past her, flashing her teeth at the men, "I'll show 'em a good time."

Éponine grabbed her upper arm, "Don't be a fool. They're dangerous. You could get hurt."

The blonde scowled and wretched her arm free, "You have little room to talk."

Her head tilted, eyes narrowed, "What are you implying?"

"The other girls resent you," Cerise said, her voice hinted with indignation, "We don't have gentlemen callers to support us. We can't afford to pick and chose who we take to bed. And I'll take whoever I can get."

"At the expense of putting yourself in harm's way?" Éponine challenged.

"We're whores Éponine," she said. "Pain is nothing new to us. Don't pretend any other way."

Cerise turned her back to her, waving and calling after the two men. She walked between them, no one touched, no one spoke, but a contract was made in their silence as they disappeared into the alley. Éponine turned away, pushing Cerise's words from her mind. Instead while she searched out potential customers, slowly walking down the street, her eyes scanned for that mystery "he". She refused to allow herself to hope for Marius, he was never out this late. Thinking of Enjolras resulted in her blood to rush and her stomach to churn; she had no desire to see him any more than he did for her. Montparnasse or her father were more likely considered. She rolled her eyes at the thought of Montparnasse, her father's spy, a thorn in her side to say the least. Nevertheless, Éponine braced herself for the possibility.

She leaned against a lamppost, and staring up at the candlelight, she wished to be in her room, a safe haven, she pretended, alone with herself and some feeble sense of comfort. Her hand tucked inside her pocket, she felt the letter she never delivered. Marius asked her, and this was the first time she'd not fulfilled his request. Yet she had seen him since he tasked her with delivering the letter. Had he forgotten to ask after it? In any case, she kept it, read it and reread it, pretended it was addressed to her, and when she couldn't imagine anymore, when she couldn't keep herself from crying, she considered burning it. Yet here it was, safe and then again not, in her pocket, not in Cosette's hands. Marius will hate her for it. Enjolras would chastise just the same. She frowned at the thought and chewed on her lip.

"Éppie."

The corners of her lips twitched. No one else called her that. Ponine had been a nickname of hers, though at the moment she could not remember who had given it to her. Éppie was something soft, something gentle, something that lifted her heart. She turned to see Enjolras stepping into the faint light of the lamppost, her heart beyond her control as it thudded with relief. He was wearing his red jacket, his white cotton shirt unbuttoned at his chest. Éponine's elation, as quick as it came, dissolved into anger. She considered slapping him.

"What are you doing here?" She barked.

His eyes narrowed, his tone turning bitter, "Why else would I be here?"

"I don't want to see you."

"You're lying," Enjolras said, his voice low, "You wouldn't sacrifice our meetings for a stranger's cock."

She grit her teeth, "Go home Enjolras."

His eyes flashed with irritation, hard and unrelenting defiance. She could not force him to go anymore than she could ask him to stay. But he continued to stare, his eyes boring into her and fury burned beneath her skin.

"I'm not leaving," he said forcefully. "Why are you so piqued?"

Her hands curled into fists, knuckles white, "You left me!" _Slap him. He deserves it_. "And you treated me so cruelly! You never spoke to me afterward, no explanation, no apology, you never wore your coat! And then you expect to buy my compliance with money!"

She stiffened entirely, swallowed, licked her lips, and breathed to regain control of herself. His eyes remained on her, his expression unchanged, stern, as if her words only fueled a fire that would engulf him.

"You didn't even consider my feelings." Éponine went on, slightly calmer now, "You only care about yourself. You're hateful."

"Don't!" His voice was steel, eyes burning fierce and bright with ire, "You don't know. Don't try to turn me into a monster to fit your imagination. You know damn well what that money is for."

"You don't like what I am. I'm a whore, Enjolras. It's my job to sleep with men."

He shook his head, "It's more than that, Éppie. I've seen the bruises they leave you with. I've seen the scars."

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing. "I have nothing more to say to you." She went to leave, to go anywhere but where he was.

"You need this just as much as I do."

Éponine stopped and folded her arms across her chest, lifting her chin as she looked back at him. "I do not." But the fire in him seemed to have dimmed, his eyes duller, the passion fading. What happened?

"If you came today you would have seen." His voice seemed to struggle between annoyance and neutrality, "I wouldn't have had to search for you."

"Ah yes, instead of having things come easy for you, you struggled for once in your life. Tough isn't it, bourgeois?"

"Don't patronize me, Éponine." He growled, a spark.

"Everything has been made easy for you." Éponine returned, "The wealthy have always stepped on us, spat on us, turned us into lesser people. For once you had to search me out, because I have to work to survive. Because of this little inconvenience for you, you come and complain to me."

She watched him grit his teeth.

"You did not follow Marius to the Musain today." He said, "You were petty due to some imagined slights. But if you came, you would have seen that I wished to see you. And you would not have to be out here tonight."

"Yet before today, you continuously came by to give me money instead of an explanation?" She snarled.

"I didn't have to come at all."

She shifted and frowned, pulling her shawl tighter around herself, "I don't need to see Marius every day just as I am under no obligations to return to the Musain. And even if I saw you I'd tell you not to come. You aren't some sort of golden savior to save me from my life."

"I never claimed to be anything of the sort."

His face was hard, lips tight and hands curled into fits. But his eyes held such mixed emotions that Éponine could not decipher a distinctive one, expect what she knew too well, grief. It was there, brief flickers of it, but she did not care enough to ask of it; if he wanted to confide in her, he would do it without her encouragement. But still, what could it be that he desired to keep it hidden? He expressed to her his fears, his rage, his passion, his hope, but what brought about unhappiness? The bourgeois had more than she could ever hope for, every want, every desire, no worries or cares. What would he know about suffering?

"Do you want me to leave?" He asked, frustrated in his defeat.

Her eyes narrowed, skeptical of his changed behavior. "You are only asking me now? Why do I suddenly matter to you now?"

"That has never been the truth."

Éponine could see his sincerity, and her rage faded. She realized then how dry her throat was, how cold the night became. Enjolras' gaze lingered on her, watching as if to figure out her thoughts. Then the quiet of the streets shattered apart as a sharp scream filled the air. Cerise's name escaped her lips, the name heavy on her tongue while fear surged through her. They turned in the direction it came from, and before Éponine could caution him, Enjolras ran towards the screams. She called after him, hiking up her dress and following him, having no desire to be left alone. They ran down the street and turned the corner into the alley, the same one Cerise had gone down with those men. They slowed their pace to a stop, panting lightly as they saw a figure moving in the shadows, crawling on the ground, gravel scraping on stone. And two more appeared, standing tall above the one beneath them.

"Bitch," a male voice spat, and the woman below him sobbed.

"Cerise," Éponine whispered, glancing up at Enjolras who stiffened; they were spectators to a beating, the two men across the way punching and kicking the young girl for only God knows what. She was a whore, rented property that the men paid for. They could do as they pleased. Enjolras reached for something within the contents of his coat and quickly Éponine placed her hand on his upper arm.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop. Your revolution ends if the police catch you."

His face turned fierce and determined as Cerise's screams of pain rang out into the night that shunned her. Éponine stood back, seeing she could not convince him otherwise, as Enjolras approached the men from behind, unnoticed, pulling out whatever he carried in his coat and struck a man over the head with it. The man grunted and fell forward, and the other shouted curses and attacked Enjolras as Cerise struggled to get away. Quickly, Éponine went to Cerise who wept and moaned in her agony, gathered her at her arm and pulled her to her feet. Éponine wrapped her arm about the wounded girl and led her away from the alley, but not before glancing back at Enjolras. He was too occupied with punching the man on the ground to look back at her. The girls rushed together, their footsteps echoing like slaps on cobblestone as she kept Cerise on her feet who limped at her side. Éponine's thoughts raced. _What would happen to Enjolras? Will they kill him? Will he kill them? Don't think about that. Don't think about him. Don't worry. Just get to the brothel._

When the two returned to the brothel, a few other girls and customers watched as Éponine brought Cerise to the Madame. The Madame, tight lipped and stern, did not ask questions, did not scold or berate the poor girl and took the bloodied Cerise upstairs. Éponine looked back at the brothel's entrance. She wondered if Enjolras would return to her, if she should go look for him. She picked at her nails.

"What happened to Cerise?"

Éponine looked to the voice that came from beside her. A girl of twelve, doe-eyed and plump, too young by Éponine's standards, an apprentice by the Madame's, stared up at her with an expression that lacked concern.

"An accident." She replied, her tongue threatening to stutter.

"Clients." The girl was no fool.

"Yes."

The little one's expression shifted to anger, hatred. "I would never let that happen to me." And then she walked away, down the hall and turned the corner, gone. Watching her go, Éponine both pitied the child and at the same time admired her strength, seeing a bit of herself in the girl. She was only a year or two older when she came to the brothel.

The entrance door opened, and Éponine quickly turned her head to see Enjolras striding through, the crease returned to his forehead, a ferocity evident within him still, his clothes and hair disheveled. He looked wild, his body, his expression revealed a dangerous demeanor, and if she didn't know him, Éponine would not think twice about confronting him. His appearance resulted in stares and whispers about the brothel, and Éponine despised every look they gave him. They had no right to judge the revolutionary; they don't know him, not like she did. As he came closer she could see a line of red at his brow and his hand cut and bloodied.

"Come," she said before he could speak, taking him by the hand and leading him to her room, closing the door behind her. She lit candles and tossed the money she collected through the night onto her nightstand, including Marius' letter to Cosette. She gathered cloth and other essentials at hand to tend to his wounds. It was silent between them as she brought out what she needed, and upon glancing at him she could feel his discomfort.

"I've never brought anyone into this room," she said hoping to reassure him.

He stared at her, his expression soft, almost vacant, and she smiled weakly, embarrassed. "It's not much," she said referring to her room, "But it's mine for now. It's better than what most have."

"Most of the poor aren't whores," Enjolras said.

"No." She replied, slowly approaching him, a wet cloth in her hand. She dabbed the cut on his eyebrow—he did not flinch at her touch as she gently brushed away the blood. "Most are dying."

"It will change." His eyes were genuine, hopeful.

"It's not deep," she said as she inspected the cut, "Minor." She then moved to take his hand, feeling his gaze on her as she repeated the process, soaking the cloth in the water bucket beside her and wringing it out, swabbing the blood. They were quiet, too quiet for her comfort as she wrapped his bloodied hand in gauze. His hand is soft, Éponine noted.

Looking up at him sheepishly, his eyes never leaving hers, she said, "It may have been quite idiotic, what you did. But you were very brave, Enjolras."

"I was only doing what anyone else would have done." He replied, his voice low.

"No you weren't. No one would defend a whore."

His eyes, dark in the candlelight almost seemed to shimmer. The recent hostility that overcame him when he came in to the brothel had receded to a calm temperament. His features, charming, Éponine admitted, shifted again to soft determination, courage.

"I will regardless."

She stared at him, silently amazed by his honesty, his reckless desire to stand up for the lowest, the struggling, the dying. All previous anger—what little of it that remained—from earlier that night vanished. What compelled him, a bourgeois, with such righteousness? Such an honorable act, to fight, to face failure, death to defend the poor. It's a selfless act, but what about those he would leave behind? His family, his friends would mourn for him. And possibly, she was almost afraid to admit, she could not help it, she would mourn him too. The thought of his death saddened her. Éponine would mourn for Enjolras.


	4. Chapter 4

Ch 4

They moved to sit, Éponine on the edge of her bed and Enjolras sitting across from her on a chair he had brought in from the foyer. He was cleaning the object, his pistol that he used to strike the man, wiping the blood from the butt of it. And she stared at him, patiently waiting for him to finish, their silence eating away the candles in the room. Eyeing the gun and his hardened expression, Éponine asked, her voice a near whisper, "Did you kill them?"

He stopped, dropping his hands to his lap to look at her, "No."

Something between a scoff and a sigh escaped her lips as she latched onto that one word. She'd believe it to feel relief, to lessen her worries, that this man before her who is capable of such violence would never resort to murder. He was not Montparnasse. She watched him return his attention to the pistol.

"When will we know about that girl?"

"You're concerned about her?" Éponine asked.

"I didn't defend her for nothing," he replied simply.

"You won't be able to see her. The Madame won't allow it." She said, her tone tinged with bitterness.

His brow rose. "Why is that?" He asked incredulously.

Éponine shifted, hating his question. She in fact, had no idea if the Madame would let him see her. But he could not go to her. Cerise didn't deserve his company. And just like the rest of them, Cerise will try to steal Enjolras from her. They are all envious. They all want him. But he couldn't understand.

So she shrugged, "The Madame prefers to keep watch over hurt girls until they are well enough. She doesn't like visitors."

She wasn't lying, but in truth she did not know how the Madame handled those situations. She never bothered to know, not when it didn't concern her. Enjolras' expression was marble. She could see he didn't like her response, but she hoped it was enough to keep him from prying.

"And besides, Cerise put herself into this situation," she quickly said. "I warned her to stay away from those men. She didn't listen."

"You shouldn't hold that against her."

Éponine looked down at the dusty wood floor, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of her bed. She waited for any more questions, for him to say anything else, but he did not speak as he tucked the cleaned pistol back into the pocket of his coat, along with the bloody cloth he cleaned it with. He stared at her as she bit her lip, a few locks of her dark hair falling in her face. Between those dirty strands she glanced back at him. She didn't want to talk about Cerise anymore. She dug at the dirt beneath her nails, pulled at the cuticle, fidgeted and scratched at the tips of her fingers. The night went on.

"Why did you leave me like that?"

He stared at her blankly.

"Why did you leave me during our last meeting?" She said impatiently, gripping the bed again, "Tell me why."

His sigh sounded more like a hiss, his blue eyes like sapphire stone, "I was ashamed for admitting my fears." He paused as he turned his eyes between her and the floor, "I was hoping to avoid the topic entirely, but I couldn't. And once it was out in the open I wanted to take it back. Of course I couldn't, so decided avoiding you would be best. I'm sorry for the hurt I caused you."

 _A terrible excuse, but at least he cares enough to apologize_. "So why did you come back?"

His jaw tightened and slacked, his eyes softening. He stared at her, hesitant as if struggling to find the exact words he sought.

And then he said, "I wanted to see you. To speak with you for only a moment. I didn't plan to come back here. But after seeing those men hurt that girl—" he paused, his hands curling into fits, "it reminded me of memories I wished I could forget."

He scowled then, at his memories, Éponine surmised. He breathed heavily, and as if regaining himself, he blinked and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

"My father beat me as a child." He said, his voice rasping, watching Éponine who said nothing, "He drank often and when he drank, he grew angry and beat me."

She pitied him, taking in his words, no need to imagine his pain for it was evident in his voice. She had been so quick to judge him, but this bourgeois knew suffering just as she knew it.

"And my mother who loved me and I her," he went on, "knew of my father's malice. She never witnessed it, but I know she knew." His knuckles whitened as his fingers curled, "She looked at me with guilt every day. I hoped that she would love me enough to stand up to my father. But with each passing day, nearly dying at his hands, I realized that my mother loved my father more than me."

He leaned back in his chair while they stared at each other, quiet again, and she tried to imagine a mother's love. But she couldn't. She didn't know what that felt like, to be in the presence of a truly loving mother. But suffering was like an old friend to her, and love accompanied it. And in that sense she could understand his pain, a father that never loved him and physically tormented him, and a mother that cared but not enough to save him, let him down time and again.

"Those men beat that girl," Enjolras said, "I couldn't let them get away with it."

"No," she agreed, "no, you couldn't."

He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes seeming darker with every waking second, as if reliving the memories all over again left him drained. _Did it hurt again_ , Éponine wondered, _just as before?_ It grew quiet again, even the voices outside her room seemed to drift and fade, and he looked away from her. She wanted to reach out and touch him but thought against it, glancing down at her fingers instead.

"My maman never truly cared for me or Azelma. She never loved Gavroche," she said, looking for a shift in his expression. "My papa used his children, beat them if necessary to do his biding to strengthen his station in life." She paused, her index finger scratching at her nail. "But I still care about my papa. I've helped free him from jail. Most of my share of the earnings here go straight to him." She said too much.

"You helped a criminal escape?"

"He's my father. My family. Don't, Enjolras."

He licked his lips, his brow creasing, but he held his tongue. A moment passed, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I have no one else," she said.

He nodded, and she was thankful for his silence. She too had nothing else to say, only wanted to let him know that he wasn't alone. They sat in silence for a while, and in the quiet Éponine enjoyed his company and wondered if he enjoyed hers as well. She glanced at his bandaged hand and imagined how he looked as he beat those thugs. He was brave, no doubt, but in her mind's eye, seeing his enraged face, his determination thrilled her. He'd defend a stranger, he'd defend her too if she should ever need him.

"How is your hand?" She asked.

"It's alright," he said, glancing over at the nightstand where she had left her money and more importantly, the letter from Marius.

"You haven't delivered it," he said.

Her lips tightened to a line, "Is it of your concern?"

"That is unfair, to Cosette yes but even more so to Marius."

At the mention of his name, after hearing it Éponine's back straightened. Her palm itched.

"He entrusted you with the task, and you betrayed him."

She crossed her arms, grimacing, "You wouldn't understand."

"I know more than you think." He returned evenly.

"No you don't." She retorted. Her hands curled, nails digging into her arms, her jaw clenched tight, "You don't know how it feels to love someone who doesn't see you."

Enjolras frowned, and Éponine scoffed at his expression, watching him as he stood to his feet. "You've told me many times France is your only love. Your beloved Patria. But Patria is not human."

He stared down at her, the candlelight reflecting in the dark of his eyes, "And what about your love for Marius? It's not real if it only exists in your mind. Love is not like songs and fairytales."

He then removed the francs from his pocket and placed them on the chair. He glanced back at her before leaving her room, "Bonsoir, Éppie."

* * *

Lamarque is dead. He died on the morning of June 1st, and all of Paris appeared to die with him. And this afternoon as she trailed behind Marius to the Musain, she could feel the weight of thousands of mourning citizens. She glanced at Marius, uneasy by his silence but could only see the back of his head and side of his face. She wondered how affected he truly was.

"Marius—"

"I do not think coming today is such a good idea, Éponine," Marius said.

Her heart dropped, and her blood seemed to pumped solely from her stomach, the bile in it bubbling.

"Why not?" She matched his speed to walk beside him, her black hair billowing behind her, her eyes fixed on his.

He looked down at his feet and then ahead of him as they came closer to the building. But he did not answer. He looked afraid. What could he have to fear?

"Marius?" Her voice lightly trembled.

He said nothing and did not stop her as they walked into the shadow of the Musain, Éponine's stride slowed as she stared up at the window, suddenly feeling unwelcome. Marius had left her behind and walked inside, but she did not care at the moment to be away from him. Did Enjolras not want her there? Did Marius?

She swallowed, and struggled to calm her nerves, to still her heart to prevent impending panic. So she walked inside. If Enjolras wanted her gone, he could tell her himself. She walked up the stairs, her head turning to look into the room. From between the pillars of the railing Enjolras spied her, his eyes softening at the sight of her. Slowly gauging his reaction as she took a few steps up, and he turned away from her, looking back at his friends. And that's when she saw the Amis. They sat silent, every one, including Gavroche. Her footsteps echoed as she treaded across the wood floor to sit in a chair at the corner of the room. The room was cold, the tension thick, and everyone was sat still except for Enjolras who stood, his expression harsh, the crease deep.

"How did he die?" Combeferre's voice was so low, Éponine was scarcely sure she heard him.

"Cholera, they say," Grantaire said before he took a sip of whatever alcohol was in his bottle.

"It was only a matter of time," said Joly. "It was bound to happen."

"But not now. It wasn't supposed to happen now when France is so vulnerable," replied Feuilly.

Éponine watched Marius as he nibbled at his nails, his sorrowful eyes fixed on the floor. It was strange to see him wear this face. She had only seen it on him in regards to Cosette, back when he had lost hope in finding her, when Eponine hated that look on him so much that she went out of her way to lead him to his dearest Lark. It surprised her at how indifferent she felt at his distress now, possibly it was the circumstances of his upset, but this time she did not obsessively wish to comfort him.

She chose not to think about it. Instead she looked over at Enjolras, whose expression was grim, brows knitted, arms folded across his chest. His chest heaved, sighing heavily as he began to pace. "This is not the end of us."

Éponine's eyes scanned each face as their eyes turned to their leader.

"We will use his death to bring the people to our side. This is fodder for the flames." Enjolras' voice was fiercely passionate as always, and Éponine saw it in his eyes too. His rage and faith, his grief and fervor, his love for Patria ablaze, his eyes bluer than she'd ever seen. "We will continue with our strike as planned. Tonight is merely the beginning. Lamarque's death only strengthens our cause."

His footsteps stopped, and he dropped his arms, the man of marble, the golden revolutionary carrying the weight of his friends on his shoulders as he attempted to dissolve their worries. Éponine could see the devotion in every friend, the unyielding faith in him and the cause. Grantaire hadn't taken a sip once Enjolras began speaking. But Marius, Éponine noticed, did not hold that same hope, the same sense of encouragement. Instead he looked frustrated, conflicted, and sad. Glancing back at Enjolras, she felt almost lighter as she listened to him. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and she thought she felt her heart still and then pound again. She scratched at her finger with her thumb.

As the afternoon faded to dusk, the Amis had turned silent. They glanced between each other as the tension hung in the air like smoke. Marius scratched at the wood armrest, tapped his finger against it, and then scratched again. He then nearly jumped to his feet, his hands shaking.

"My friends, we should not go through with this." His voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, was tinged with panic.

The men looked at each other, doubtful and even somewhat annoyed. Enjolras was scowling.

"You have another plan to secure the guns and ammunition, then?" asked Bahorel.

Marius blinked. "Well, no, but I—"

"Then how else are we supposed to succeed without them?" Lesgle interjected.

 _Let him speak,_ Éponine thought, leaning forward in her chair as she stared at Marius who sweated where he stood. She wanted to reach out to him.

"I have no alternative plans." Marius began hesitantly, staring at each of his comrades. "I don't believe it is best for us to go through with this. What if we are caught? The fight ends then and there!"

Caught? What exactly were they planning? Éponine thought back to past meetings, trying to remember what the men had discussed, what they planned to do. Was it really so secretive or had she just not paid attention?

She glanced at Enjolras whose expression was hard and eyes fierce. He was vicious in his silence.

"Marius you cannot think so cynically," Joly said, "We are already on edge. You're making matters worse."

Marius paused and then as he glanced at his friends, he scoffed. "How can you all be so eager to throw your lives away? With both hands!"

"Marius."

Everyone's attention shifted to Enjolras, and it was only then that Éponine noticed his red coat. Her heart lifted a moment, her lips pulled at both corners to a smile. But then it dropped, and she felt fear slowly crawl up her spine and spread through her veins to her fingertips and toes _._ What's to happen to Marius? To Enjolras? What will they do?

"Our lives matter very little in this world." Enjolras said, his voice iron as he walked around the table to stand in front of Marius, "But we, as France's citizens, have a duty to those who have no voice. They are the forgotten. And we must prove that we have not forsaken them."

"I understand but—"

"You're afraid," he said simply, "We all are. We are men, not gods. And tonight, we may die."

Éponine's blood turned to ash, and her heart became knives in her chest. Marius may die tonight. Enjolras may die. Why? For what? She stared at Enjolras in horror, fiercely hoping he was lying. But he never turned her way. She scratched her wrist.

He went on, "But we die knowing we are part of something greater. France's citizens will not forget us."

She could see his words had little effect on Marius. His fear was blatant, and she saw the name of his lips before it escaped his mouth.

"Cosette doesn't know." He replied while shaking his head, "She doesn't know, and I can't abandon her."

Enjolras scoffed and shook his head. The argument ended with an ultimatum. Eponine watched silently as Enjolras made him chose between Cosette and the revolution. Eponine could see it in his eyes, Cosette, Cosette, Cosette, and Éponine held her breath.

"Go to her tonight and leave us to our fight. No one here will hold a grudge against you," Enjolras said.

Marius swallowed, waiting for him to finish before considering.

"Or aid us tonight and send her your farewells, though you may not need to."

Marius stared at Enjolras, their eyes meeting, and he knew how serious his leader truly was. The blond broke contact to glance at Eponine and said, "I'm sure Éponine would gladly deliver the letter."

She stiffened and flushed as she glanced between them, as they both stared at her. She felt the sting of Enjolras' insult and the burn as he turned away from her, from them, his red coat retreating downstairs. She should hold that against him, but she found herself lacking the energy. It was his calm, collected voice. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed that tone coming from him. How long had she wasted her time being angry with him? But then she saw Marius' pleading eyes, and she thought of his previous letter and could not deny her guilt. She nodded, and they walked to the back of the room, separating themselves from the Amis as Marius wrote his last letter to Cosette. Éponine glanced outside the window and watched as the red of Enjolras' jacket faded with him into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This chapter, which the entire story is based around and has been building up to, was inspired by a scene from Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, so I cannot take full credit for it. This chapter was originally supposed to be a oneshot but decided against it. I wanted to explore the possibility of Enjolras and Eponine's relationship with this scene, and while nothing explicit happens, it and not the cussing necessarily, is the reason for the M rating. I am asking my readers to continue to be open minded and to remember how I've built these characters. There is a reason why Martin is a titan in the realm of science fiction, and while I'm not claiming to be anything of the sort, I am asking that you give my work respect and consideration just as any other author. Anyway, enough about that. Enjoy.

Ch 5

Éponine faithfully took the letter at Marius' request, unable to break his trust a second time, not when he could very well lose his life. But she would not think about that now, staring at the moonlit, ivory envelop instead, feeling it in her fingers, her eyes following the flow of his handwriting that spelled out her name. Cosette. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the other letter Marius had asked her deliver, the one she could not bring herself to dispense. Both letters did not entice the same feelings as she had become accustomed to. She expected to feel a bitterness overcome her as the Lark's name usual brought about, a searing hatred, envy, but instead all she could feel was an aching numbness, something empty where her organs sat, something cold.

She walked down the Rue Plumet, eyes to the cobblestone and turned the corner into the alley that led to the gate to garden where Marius and Cosette frequently met. She could not shake her growing discomfort as the garden came into view, the stone bench where the pair sat and talked. How many times had she wished she occupied the spot beside Marius, the spot Cosette possessed in the garden? But now that oppressive desire slowly ebbed, and that too concerned her. Éponine placed both letters in the shrubs of the garden where Cosette would find them. She then quickly turned away from the light of the house that managed to slip through the tree branches and hurried back to the shadows of the street.

Her hustle slowed to a walk as she turned into an alley, and then ever slower, her mind drifting until she stopped entirely and leaned against the wall of a building. Wherever it was that Marius went carry out Enjolras' plans, he might never come back. Her fingertips tingled at the thought, her blood rushing through her as if to keep her from panicking. She breathed deeply. She should be mad at Enjolras for putting Marius into such a situation. But Marius chose it, she reminded herself. She didn't want to think about him anymore. She didn't want to worry.

Éponine slumped and slid down against the wall, sitting on the cold ground and hugged her knees. The velvet had been soft once, she thought, touching her dress. She leaned her head back against the wall. Enjolras had once told her that he liked her dress, that red suited her. At the time she had felt insulted; she knew the meaning of a red dress just as he did, but when she realized his was a compliment, she smiled. She almost felt pretty. The memory warmed her. She thought of the jacket he had been wearing earlier that day. Will he keep his promise? Will he come? He might die tonight too.

Éponine fisted the fabric, pulled at it with her fingers tight into a bunch. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, warmth entirely gone as cold fear traveled up her spine, wrapping up and around her ears to the forefront of her mind. Enjolras might die tonight.

Laughter, gruff and sinister echoed to her left as if it had traced her from the Rue Plumet. Four figures detached themselves from the darkness by the puffs of their cigars. The cigars brightened, then dimmed, coming closer, and moonlight revealed the gang of men to her, Montparnasse at the head of the Patron-Minette. She should stand and walk away, avoid them all together. But of course it's too late, they've already spied her, and Montparnasse's cheeky smile what gave it away.

"Look at what we have here," Montparnasse said, grinning as he approached her. He lightly kicked her foot, "Éponine Thénardier."

Her jaw tightened, her face ablaze. Daggers.

"What are you doing way out here, so far from the red light district?" His tone was patronizing.

All four men puffing their cigars carried sacks, a look of smug satisfaction on their faces. They must have just gone through with a robbery. Montparnasse seemed too eager, his fingers fidgeting. The bourgeoisie they robbed must have met some terrible fate. And then she saw his bloody crowbar.

She looked up at him, her eyes challenging, defiant, all too sure what he wanted from her. He flashed her that same charming smile before sending Claquesous, Babet, and Gueulemer on their way. To where, Éponine did not have the faintest idea, but it relieved her to be out of their presence. She could handle Montparnasse.

"What do you want?" She growled, standing to her feet.

He took the cigar from his mouth, his face turning to pout as he stared at her. "Have you not been missing me?"

She rolled her eyes. The bastard's drunk. "Go to Hell."

"Come on now my dear, how long has it been?"

"I don't care." Her russet eyes burned. She stood, her teeth smacking together as she spoke, "I don't want you. Ever."

"You wanted me before," he said, smirking. "Long before that bourgeois. And you never charged me!"

She opened her mouth and then closed it, unable to think of a retort. She refused to remember, hating the satisfied look he gave her. Her brows furrowing as she said, "I've changed since then. I've outgrown you."

He stifled a chuckle, and she chided herself for once thinking the creature before her was attractive.

"Ah yes, outgrown me to chase that boy who loves another girl. And how have you been fairing?" He grinned maliciously.

She wanted to break the bones in his face, shatter each one to bits until his triumph turned morose. But she could not find her voice, unable to use words to defend her pride.

"You're a slut as you were then, dear Éponine. A whore. The only difference now is you have a slightly better bed and richer clientele." He took a step forward and leaned his face close to hers, whispering, "I forgive you for your betrayal. And if all this is a matter of a fee, I'm more than willing to pay many nights for you."

Her face twisted in disgust. Not only did he stink of cigar smoke, her skin crawled and stomach knotted at the thought of a night with him. She pushed him away and shoved passed him, her anger suffocating her as she grappled with her tongue. Montparnasse grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back. She turned and looked at him, her indignation transforming to fear that stilled her muscles. His features were frightening, the enraged lecher. He could force her, and none would hear her scream. Éponine's heartbeat reached her ears, forgetting to breathe, her mind shrieking. _Run._ But his grip did not give as he forcefully pulled her closer, their bodies nearly touching. Panic seeped in. She thought of Enjolras.

And then his expression softened, as if deciding against his actions. He smiled, "You'll come around."

He released his hold on her, and she stepped back, running in the opposite direction. She would not take any chances. Not with him.

"No one will want you, Éponine!" He called after her, "Not above your station. I'm the best you have!"

She turned the corner, disappearing from Montparnasse's leering eyes, relieved that she was not being followed. She breathed, struggling to calm herself, telling herself she was safe, she was unharmed. This was not the first time, she reminded herself. Others had threatened her just as Montparnasse had. But it was a threat and nothing more. He would never hurt her like that, right? She swallowed. He's a fraud. He only meant to scare her. Her jaw clenched. It worked.

Éponine shut her eyes, holding herself. Inhaling, she continued walking, wishing she could forget her encounter with him. And as the night went on, she could repress his actions, but his words overtook her mind. She walked faster, her hair flaring behind her, fighting the rage, fighting the hurt. His words were not truth. Marius will want her. He will see her. His affections for Cosette cannot last. Her footsteps slowed and glanced up at the burning lamppost, finding herself drawn to the candlelight like a moth. Enjolras had sought her out beneath a lamppost wearing his red coat. She was not worthless that night. She was wanted. Enjolras wanted her then, as he had many times before, and he desired her company again tonight. She wondered again as she leaned against the lamppost if she will see him.

* * *

There was shouting in the streets along with the unmistakable sharp cracks of gunfire. The night flashed with the orange sparks and smoke from the sporadic gunshots thickened the air. The urchins lurking in the dark fled the streets, darting into alleyways and the safety of their homes until there was hardly anyone left. Éponine had returned to the brothel before the fiasco began and held her breath while others inside shouted and gasped in surprise and fear. While whores and clients clutched each other out of terror, as if holding an utter stranger would somehow bring some sort of ease or comfort, Éponine dashed into her room, shutting the door behind her. In the candlelight of the dimly lit room, shadows flickered and tossed about as if to mimic the panic she felt. She told herself that the police had no connection between her and the Patron-Minette. Montparnasse is not the reason for the madness outside, he is not coming for her. She picked up the broken leg of a wooden chair. Her heart pounded in her chest, the organ muscle strong enough to break her bones as her body tingled from the coursing adrenaline and sheer terror. She was not going back to jail, she would not leave her room without a fight, and she gripped the wood piece in both hands.

She could hear men shouting outside, the echoing sound of heavy footsteps on stone, and the gunfire returned. Then the shouting ceased entirely. Silence fell, quiet enough that it seemed the night itself had died, and all Éponine could hear was her heartbeat in her ears. Minutes passed and in the quiet she could feel herself beginning to relax until she jumped and nearly screamed as a door banged open. Those in the main entrance of the brothel shrieked. This is it, they're coming for her. Loud, leaden footsteps thudded against the wood floor, and Éponine pressed her back against the wall beside the door to her room. She held her breath as the footsteps quickly grew louder, her grip like iron about her makeshift baton. She'd die before going back to prison.

It happened too fast, and all she could do was react. Her door opened, the dark figure barged in, and she swung, her chair-leg baton connecting with the figure's shoulder.

"Ah!" A man's voice groaned, dropping the large sack he carried, but Éponine scarcely heard or noticed either as she went to strike him again.

"Éponine!" He then shoved her against the door, slamming it shut in the process and ripped the chair leg from her hands, throwing it across the room. In her struggle he managed to secure his arm about her midsection and press her back against his front. Before she could fill her lungs to scream, a strong hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her. She gripped at his hand in an attempt to tear it from her face. His fingers were soft and sticky with blood. "Éppie, you knew I'd return."

Outside men's footsteps could be heard and through the thick wooden shutters of her window, pale light shinned through and passed over them in an orange glare as if daylight had sped its clock. And then as the voices faded and the light vanished, the man in Éponine's room was nothing more than a shadow with golden hair and a stained crimson coat. Gently he took his hand from her mouth. Her breathing was ragged as she attempted to swallow her heart that had jumped into her throat. Enjolras was slow to loosen his hold on her, and when he did he walked back and knelt down to inspect the sack he'd dropped.

"Mon Dieu," Éponine cursed, "Enjolras! What is going on?"

"We carried out our plan," Enjolras said. He inspected the contents of the sack without looking at her which did not fail to frustrate her.

"Who? What plan? What have you done?"

He stood and turned to look directly at her, and Éponine saw then the blood as red as her dress on his cheek and neck.

"Enjolras, you're bleeding," she said warily.

He inhaled, his eyes flashed and darkened as if he had suddenly remembered, "I couldn't let them take me, not when we are so close. Lamarque's death will not be the end of us."

Éponine tried to make sense of his words, piecing them together with what she remembered from the meetings, but she did not understand his meaning.

He must have understood her confusion, and was merciful enough to further explain. "The Amis sacked the armory—" he gestured to his sack which must have contained weapons and all he would need for his rebellion. "—but not without help. The Guard chased us, and we split up. I don't know what has happened to them."

"If they know you're here they'll take me too," she said.

He took the few steps that separated them. Bitterly, he replied, "The only one that knows will never speak again."

Éponine swallowed as she stared at him. She could smell the alcohol on his breath—she had never seen him drink—and eyed the pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. She glanced again at dried blood on his face, thinking of the gunshot she heard so close to the brothel. "They'll come after you. The Guard, the police, someone will come."

"Are you worried about me?" He asked suddenly.

She opened her mouth and promptly shut it, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "You told me before that you would stop at nothing for your revolution. But what if you're stopped before it can begin? They'll come for you, and they'll come for me too. I can't go to jail again, but there is nothing and no one to protect me."

He scoffed lightly, "You hardly associate with us. And besides, you're not someone who needs protecting."

Éponine didn't know whether to be appalled or appreciative. While what he said is true, that she could handle herself, did he also mean to say that she was not worth trying to protect? Her eyes flashed, jaw tightening, remembering Montparnasse. She decided not to think on it, to brush away his words as if she hadn't heard them at all, but then something in his features changed. His eyes softened, his lips parted as if struggling to find the words he searched. He almost looked childish except for the true sincerity in his face, a look she had yet to see him wear. Possibly, she admired it.

"I can keep you safe," Enjolras whispered.

She froze then, the blood drained from her face, and her stomach dropped like a stone.

"I can protect you, Éppie. No one will frighten or hurt you again. I will take care of you, and you won't have to work anymore."

Her heartbeat quickened, and she wondered if he could see her legs quivering beneath the skirt of her dress. Her tongue seemed to swell in her mouth, a fat useless thing that prevented any speech. She didn't know what to say, how to feel, never had she been offered any sort of kindness, mercy, not this strange and blatant admission, and certainly not from him. It was something out of a fairytale, like the ones she read as a child, the ones with brave knights and fair maidens. But she was no maiden. He then pulled her closer, his touch ghosting over her it was almost an afterthought.

"You can't protect me and fight your revolution," she said finally.

"No," he rasped. "But I can fight for you."

Baffled, she could not find a response, her nerves taking control, her voice shriveling in her throat. He was close, so close that Éponine could smell him, the stink of sweat, the reek of blood. However, despite that, his eyes were kinder than she had seen, nothing like the cold, reticent revolutionary she had known. Slowly, cautiously, Éponine's eyes trailed up the line of his neck, his jaw, his lips, his eyes, and her cheeks heated. In this moment he looked as if he wanted to kiss her, or was it what she wanted? Regardless, under his gaze she could feel her heart pound again, stronger, fiercer than Marius ever instigated.

Éponine blinked, remembering, "What of Marius?"

Enjolras' expression shifted, the blue of his eyes seemed to darken entirely into something ferocious, something terrible as he frowned, and before Éponine could breathe, he gave her arm a hard wrench, pulled her around, and shoved her down onto her bed. "You still can't forget him, can you?" He was on top of her, one hand held both her wrists, pinning them above her head.

"Enjolras!" She struggled underneath him.

"Look at me." His voice was grave, firm, and Éponine did not dare to defy him.

His eyes bore into her, and she wished she could hide from them. "Enjolras—"

"Do you think I have not noticed? Every glance, every smile, every breath is for him. You're nothing but a shadow to him." His face was mere inches from hers, his nostrils flaring and jaw clenched tight, his brows knitted, and eyes wild, the same look he wore a few nights ago after he defended Cerise. Yet in the faint candlelight, Éponine could see the hurt he tried to mask.

"I'm jealous," he said, his voice low as he released her wrists, "I admit it. But how can I not be when you could never see past him."

Silence lingered between them, and Éponine lay quiet beneath him, afraid to speak lest she invoke his ire again. _He'd never hurt me,_ Éponine thought. Instinct lifted her hand to cup his cheek, feeling the stickiness of blood. Her thumb stroked where the dark rings below his eyes would be, slow and gentle, perhaps it would calm him. There was a wetness that she touched, something that was not blood.

His eyes closed, leaning into her hand. "Éppie," he said, his somber voice trailing off. He then rose from the bed. Éponine could not bring herself to move and listened as something soft dropped to the floor, and the sack clinking with firearms was picked up.

"Forgive me." His words were clipped. His voice quivered.

Her door opened, soft footsteps retreated from her room, and long moments passed before she lifted herself off the bed to find herself alone. Enjolras' coat lay carelessly on the floor, and Eponine went and picked it up, feeling the fabric in her hands. There was no blood on the floor and no bullet holes in his coat, just the deep red stains. It smelled of blood and gunpowder, and it smelled like him.

"Éponine." She looked up to see the Madame at her door but not daring to enter the room. Éponine stared at her blankly, wondering how the fat old woman had walked across the hall to her door without her hearing.

"Are you all right, girl? What's happened?" The Madame then noticed the coat in her hands, "That man gave us all such a fright barging in like that! He looked dangerous! More so than usual! I hope he wasn't a part of the chaos outside."

She wondered if the Madame had seen the blood he was covered in, if anyone noticed at all. As she pondered the Madame waited for answers, but Éponine did not feel she had the energy to explain, or care to explain, so she stared at the old woman waiting for her to leave.

"Surely you wouldn't be so stupid to accept that ugly thing as payment," she said.

"No, Madame." Éponine replied dryly and walked to her door and closed it before the Madame could question her further. She waited and listened for the woman's footsteps in the hall, and when she was sure she was gone, Éponine walked over to the corner of her room.

She wrapped his coat about her and hugged herself in it as she sat and curled into the corner, shuddering. Comfort was what she sought, more so than a barrier to the cold, and although she had blankets, a bed, she chose his coat. She did not know how long she remained there before she fell asleep, only sure that dawn was creeping in the east when she did.


	6. Chapter 6

Ch 6

Éponine found herself lying on a bed much bigger than one she'd ever slept in, with sheets and blankets and pillows much softer than she could imagine. The bed had a canopy, its curtains light and sheer, white and soft. She was in a room she did not know, but her mind knew it, claimed it as her own. There was a sense of familiarity in this room she did not belong to, in this room she'd read about, the room rich women owned. And yet, she could not decipher anything specific about the room, other than the moonlight through the window and the orange glow of candles alit in her peripheral vision. The bedroom door, her door, opened, and she sat up, staring as Marius walked in. His grin was charming as he made his way to her, his hair curled, lighter than his hair had any right to be. He climbed into bed with her, and she felt herself smile, catching sight of red fabric and a golden ring that matched hers. He lifted her hands above her head and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Éppie, let me fight for you," he rasped, and Éponine woke feeling more at ease than she had in years. And then that tranquility dissolved into disappointment; her waking world seemed to relish in her misery as she submitted again to her reality.

The day was long and slow, and Éponine had decided against returning to the café—a wariness and empty feeling kept her away—not even to see Marius. She wanted familiar company, missed and wanted for something, but what it was she could not say. And as nights passed and customers came for her, she rejected each one, having no desire to work, to degrade herself. It did not escape her that Enjolras had not returned to her since the night he came to her room. Nor had he sent any sign, money or anything else that he was thinking about her. Was he avoiding her? She considered going to the café again.

The night was just as slow and just as quiet, the red light district unnaturally hushed, and the tension had yet to fade since the robbery. Hours went by as she stood on the streets. Potential customers approached her, but she turned every one away just as she had been doing the previous nights. She didn't know why she was out here. What she was doing was dangerous, foolish, a whore for show that would only serve to frustrate and infuriate clientele, but it did not matter to her. She didn't care for money anymore. She didn't care for her hunger, her exhaustion. The angry glares from passing men did not faze her, nor the Madame, or any other woman she worked with. But maybe if she stood out there long enough, Enjolras will search her out again.

She leaned against the building, her arms folded across her chest, her mind blank as she stared at nothing in particular. And as time went on, men ogled and hooted, and she rebuffed each every one—risking her safety in the process—she noticed Cerise a few yards away trying to attract men. Her eye was blackened still, and she walked with a limp. She avoided eye contact with Éponine, never spoke to her, and Éponine understood and hardly cared.

"Did your handsome client find someone better? Did he get bored of your yammering?" Abella walked up to Éponine, her snide comment hanging in the air as she showed off her body to the men passing by.

Éponine's teeth bared and eyes burned in a fiery glare, "He would not do that to me."

"No? Then where is he now?"

Éponine said nothing and picked at her nails, loathing the smug look Abella wore as she tossed back her hair.

"He obviously wasn't as taken by you as you are with him," she grinned.

Éponine turned cold, all warmth within her stolen by the cruelty of Abella's words. "I'm not enamored with him." Her voice was quiet and broken in her throat, as if it had been forcibly sucked from her.

The redhead's smile held, "Then you won't mind if he shares my bed tonight now will you?"

So quick, like instinct was her reaction as she slapped Abella, her hand stinging from the connection, but in her fury Éponine hardly felt it. The force of contact was hard enough to cause Abella to yelp and stumble back as she cupped her reddened cheek. She stared at Éponine in shock and horror, and she glared back in turn, a ruthless ferocity burning in her eyes.

"He'd never fuck you." Eponine hissed.

She brushed passed her and walked with no care for direction. She did not return to the brothel; she walked familiar streets and not with no destination as she struggled to curb her rage. Enjolras would never sleep with a whore. He's too honorable. He'd never betray her like that, not after what he said that night. Éponine stopped suddenly, her heart pounding. Why would he not return to her? He left her terrified and confused, his face, his warmth, his words at the forefront of her mind.

 _I can keep you safe._

She breathed heavily and wrapped her arms about herself.

 _I can protect you._

She smiled lightly, but her eyes were grave, sorrowful. She thought of her dream.

 _Éppie._

The nights have been colder than they should be so late in the spring. She wished for his coat.

She walked even as her feet began to ache, her eyes growing heavy. How long had it been since she had decent sleep? She continued on, her mind wandering back to that night, picking apart Enjolras' words, memorizing the sound of his voice. She imagined him walking beside her, repeating to her over and over all he had said.

 _I'm jealous._

They echoed in her ears, in her mind, and she remembered his anger, his hurt. He had frightened her. But it was his words now that concerned her.

 _But how can I not be when you could never see past him._

Enjolras was jealous of Marius. For how long? She chose not to think of his feelings, uncomfortable at the thought of unmasking his true emotions. She didn't want to know. Not when she still felt something for Marius. She still desired him, there was still hope for her, wasn't there? Éponine looked up from the ground and was mildly surprised to see the Café Musain before her; the dark building that had once welcomed her now seemed to threaten to deny her entry. She hadn't realized how far she had walked and how cold she was. Candlelight shined through the window. Would Enjolras be inside? Or Marius?

She went inside despite the Musain's warning and walked up the stairs, her heartbeat slowing. Cautiously she looked up past the railing as she walked up the stairs and exhaled as she stepped up to the second floor. Disappointment washed over her. Enjolras wasn't there. Instead Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood leaning over the table, their hands flat on it, what appeared to be a map of Paris beneath their palms. Both of their expressions were grave, mournful.

"They caught Jehan." Combeferre's voice was low.

"How?"

"He took the fall so we could get away."

"If we aren't careful, we will meet the same fate." Courfeyrac hesitated. "What will they do to him?"

They knew the answer just as she knew it. And then the two men noticed her and straightened, displeased at the sight of her.

"What are you doing here?" Courfeyrac asked, his tone sharper than usual.

"Marius isn't here," said Combeferre.

"And Enjolras?"

Courfeyrac blinked and his expression turned to bemusement just as his friend's did. They glanced at each other before the curly haired revolutionary said, "We haven't seen him since yesterday."

Her heart dropped, "He's gone?"

Combeferre shrugged, "He's probably meeting with the other leaders."

Éponine felt foolish then for thinking he was avoiding her. Nothing meant more to him that dear Patria. But what if he too has been caught? She dared not ask, afraid of the possible answer. So she left the café and headed in the direction of the Rue Plumet. It wasn't too late. Marius should be there with Cosette. And she needed to see him. He'd ease her panic and relieve the weight of what concerned her. The night sky began to drizzle, a mist of rain, and she hugged herself as her hair gradually began to stick to her face.

She stopped at the corner of the Rue Plumet, the drizzle had turned to a light rain, and she could see the gated garden. Éponine's head rested on the corner of the wall, leaning forward just enough to watch as Marius gently opened and closed the gate. He stood, staring momentarily. He must have been watching Cosette retreat from their meeting place and into the warm, dry shelter of her house. Marius walked in Éponine's direction, his head down as the rain dusted his hair like dew on grass. He turned the corner, passing her by unnoticed.

"Marius." She stepped away from the corner. Marius turned, surprised to see her. She smiled at him.

"Ah, um, Éponine." His voice was quiet, and he did not look at her. He looked distracted and upset, his eyes glossy, red, and lids swollen. Had he been crying?

"Marius?" She stepped forward to place a hand on his shoulder.

He glanced at her hand and then down at the puddle on the ground, and she dropped her hand and stepped back. She waited for his rebuff to dig into her heart, but there was no sting. She scratched her fingers.

"Cosette will be leaving for England. She overheard her father talking to their maid." Melancholy dripped with every syllable he spoke. "She could not tell me when, only that she will be staying at the Rue de l'Homme-Arme in the meantime."

"Oh."

It was all she could say. She had imagined it so many times, the chance to admit her affections to Marius. Cosette could not interfere now. But instead as she looked at his grief stricken face, she felt no elation, hope for herself. She felt empty but not for him.

"I do not know what I am to do." Marius said woefully, "My life is nothing without Cosette. She is the only light of my life. I'm lost without her."

 _So he wil never take me then,_ she thought to herself. Éponine could feel her voice turn weak, "What will you do?"

He shook his head, turning back to look towards the gardens. Éponine watched him carefully, but found no words, nothing to comfort him or herself.

"I haven't the money for England. My grandfather has denied me my inheritance." He paused and still did not look at her. "My friends will need me."

His tone was that of a defeated man. She had heard it before in others, even from herself at one point. But there was some hope still in his eyes. That was more than she had.

"I fight for her now." His voice lightened, the hope seeping through, "And after we win, I shall prove my worth to her father. I'll marry her. By God, I will." He then glanced at her, his sullen expression returned, and he muttered a farewell before leaving her to stand alone in the rain.

She remained there, unsure of what to do, where to go, how to feel. She had been in love with Marius. Hadn't she? But she had her moment to confide in him her feelings, and she didn't. She didn't want to. Why not? She was not even happy to know Cosette was leaving. Marius could be hers if only she told him. But she didn't have the heart to, she did not know her heart. The love she felt for him had been replaced by pity and nothing more, and she could not understand why. All she knew was her yearning for dear Marius had faded.

Soaked and shivering, Éponine returned to the brothel and went directly to her room, closing the door behind her. She stripped out of her velvet confines, allowing sopping red to pool around her feet in a heap. She stood in the middle of her room naked and cold, hugging herself as bumps rose by the little hairs of her skin. She eyed the trunk that held her few other garments, but more importantly _his_ jacket. She walked over to it, knelt down and opened it. She rooted through the trunk until she found Enjolras' coat and stood, feeling the thick fabric in her hands. She sniffed it, inhaling deeply before wrapping herself in it. Éponine then crawled into bed and curled into herself, his coat covering her. She exhaled. Something felt broken. She stifled her tears and pulled the coat tighter. It would be long before she had any sleep, but perhaps she will dream again.


	7. Chapter 7

Ch 7

Lamarque's funeral was marked for the next day. Enjolras' revolution would begin during the funeral. The day was so close, and he still had not returned to her. Did he not wish to see her? Did she mean so little to him? Did she fantasize what he said to her on the night sparks and gunshots broke the sky?

Éponine lay curled on her side on her bed beneath a thin blanket, the red coat left on the side of her bed. Her bones felt like slabs of stone, her eyelids just as such, hair a rat's nest and shiny with grease. Her mind was vacant of any thoughts, and all she wanted was sleep.

It was dark in her room, the afternoon sun's light unable to breech the thick clouds. She turned away from the widow to stare at the door. She imagined Enjolras walking in, imagined his strong arms wrapped about her. She shut her eyes, trying for sleep. She didn't know if she had any before a knock came at her door.

"Get up girl!" The Madame barked from the other side. "You have work to do!"

Éponine groaned, rolling over.

"A man wants to see you."

 _Enjolras,_ she thought. She was slow to react, her heart pounding her body to wake and move. She rose from her bed, hope lifting with every step she took, straightening herself, and quickly taking a brush to her hair. But her door opened before she could finish, and she turned, her hands dropping to her side, bitter disappointment temporarily rendering her motionless.

"Making yourself pretty for me?" Montparnasse sneered.

She threw the brush at him. "Leave."

He dodged it with ease and smirked, "Oh no, my dear. I'm not going this time." He approached her, leering down at her.

She straightened, glaring at him. Here in the brothel, here in her room he could not intimidate her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm merely a messenger," he said nonchalantly.

"I brought you the money yesterday. Why are you here? You know you're not allowed to come here."

"Your father wants a word with you. He's a little upset with your lack of performance."

"Tell my father that if he wants the money he can wait," she snapped.

He clicked his tongue, his lips tugging with mischief, "That's just it, Éponine. You've come up short this week."

He then gripped her arm hard enough to bruise and pulled her toward him, yanking her hair down, forcing her eyes on him. His mirth turned sour, his expression becoming dangerous, threatening, but she was not afraid. Her bruises healed then, and they would again.

"You're stealing from us." He accused.

"I haven't the money," she said, wincing. "I didn't keep any of it."

"Why haven't you been working?" He demanded.

She saw his eyes shift, looking at something behind her and then back to her. Her insides twisted.

"Ah, ah!" She yelped as he pulled down harder on her hair, his fingers biting into her skin.

"Is it him now?" He barked, furious, "That pretty-faced bourgeois. You fancy him now? Is that why there isn't enough?"

 _His coat,_ she realized and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

Montparnasse shook her, "You let him fuck you without paying!"

Éponine said nothing and stared up at Montparnasse, her jaw clenched tight, her eyes narrowed, challenging. She had been afraid of him then, afraid of what he'd do to her. But whenever she thought he'd harm her, truly, only harmless words spouted from his cruel mouth. A show, a farce. The bruises he inflicted were gentle kisses compared to those of her father. Montparnasse cared too much to hurt her that much—Éponine understood that—no matter how many knives he held to her throat. He snarled, showing his teeth. His eyes did not leave hers, and the longer he stared the less harsh his expression became. He then removed his hand from her hair. His eyes moved from her breasts to her lips and then to her eyes. He licked his lips, hungry, jealous, and passionately enraged. She recognized the desire in his eyes. His lips were rough and dry where Enjolras' were soft.

"Well," his teeth clicked, "he used you up. And for free. You're a bigger fool than he is."

His words slithered up her spine into the back of her skull, gnawing through her mind like a parasite. _It's not true,_ she told herself. _Enjolras is loyal._ He'd never act so cruelly. He'd never betray her.

She told herself this as Montparnasse led her from the brothel back to the Gorbeau House. How long had it been since she'd returned there? Before the jail? After? She could not remember. Her mother will not be there. The miserable old wretch was luckier than she. Will Azelma? The rest of the Patron-Minette? She trailed behind Montparnasse, slowly walking up the steps to the second-floor balcony.

The flat was not the same as last time, surprised the landlord would allow them residency again. Her father must have done something, bribery, intimidation, something in order to rent a room. Perhaps the Minette had a hand in it. She held her breath as Montparnasse opened the rotting wood door, listened as it creaked on the hinges, and followed him in. Despite the different apartment, familiar smells crept into her nose, the stink of rotting wood, of sweat, and the lingering smell of sickness. The one room, windowless flat looked like it had been abandoned before her father and sister raided it. Inside it was cold, trash and papers were scattered about, the floorboards creaked, and the only source of heat came from the tiny fire in the oven. Her father stood by it, dressed in the same rags she had left him in, his dark hair tangled and knotted, a frown stuck on his face. Azelma sat in the corner on the only bed in the room. On the floor, it looked less of a bed and more like a pitiful lump with a thin blanket over it. She hugged her knees, her eyes fixed on Éponine as she walked in. None of the other Patron-Minette members were here, which Éponine was thankful for.

"There's my daughter." Thénardier's greeting was gruff.

They did not embrace. Instead he pulled up a chair for Montparnasse to sit. He and Éponine remained standing.

"You know why I've asked you here?" There was no fatherly affection behind his voice.

"Montparnasse made it clear enough." Éponine retorted. "Though I've committed no crime."

Thenardier chuckled, "Ah, yes. Innocent Éponine. But last week's dues seem a little light to me."

"She's hasn't been working." Montparnasse said as he cleaned his nails with a knife, "She's been screwing some bourgeois boy. The same one preaching about citizens' rights."

"That priggish twat?" Thénardier eyed Éponine suspiciously.

"She's been fucking him for free too."

Her father scowled, "For free?"

"Papa, if we could speak alone—"

Thenardier slapped her before she could finish. She stood stock still, her cheek taking the sting, her ears ringing slightly from hit. She stared at him, waiting to see what he would do next.

"You insult my future son-in-law by fraternizing with a bourgeois," His voice was low, "And you steal from your father."

"I did not steal—"

"Then where is the money?"

She hesitated, her voice caught in her throat. And it cost her another slap. Her porcelain skin burned pink, eyes stung with creeping tears. Her voice quivered, fighting the pain. "I-I haven't been working."

"Why is that?"

She rubbed her lips together, her hands at her side as she rubbed her palms with her fingers. She wanted to scratch, to pick, her fingers twitching. She could not answer. Thénardier scoffed, irritated by her silence. He glanced at Montparnasse who looked just as annoyed and turned back to Éponine, slapping her again.

"Papa!" Azelma stood to her feet and walked over to them, turning their father's attention away from Éponine. "Maybe Éponine wants to work with us again."

Éponine stared at her little sister, debating Azelma's intentions. She had been with their father for so long, so where did her loyalties lie?

"Let's take her with us in the morning."

"Quiet, girl. This doesn't concern you." Thénardier barked.

"But Papa, she can help us—"

"Stuff it Azelma!" Thénardier stared at her, his eyes wide and angry. Éponine recognized that expression, his warning.

Azelma opened her mouth and then promptly shut it. She glanced at her elder sister, her eyes apologetic. Éponine expected her to slink back into her corner on the bed, but instead Azelma remained standing beside her.

Montparnasse groaned, "That dirty job Thénardier? You still want to go through with it?"

Their father turned to face him. "Why wouldn't I?" He returned, "One last heist before we disappear."

"Call it what it is," Montparnasse said. "Revenge."

"Which makes our profit that much sweeter."

The hooting of a barn owl stole the men's attention. Montparnasse stopped and opened the door, sticking his head out to look around. Careful with the door, he then left the room and so did Thénardier. Éponine went to the door too, her hand on the knob and her ear pressed against the wood. She could hear them just outside the door.

"Éponine," Azelma said.

Éponine waved her hand at her, motioning for her silence, straining to listen.

"Claquesous," the voice was Montparnasse. Of course there was no barn owl, Claquesous' impersonations were always flawless.

"I did as you asked," came Claquesous, "the Amis group and others—I don't know how many—will attack during Lamarque's funeral tomorrow."

"Good." Montparnasse replied, "Join them and kill a civilian. That will blacken the eye of their ridiculous cause. And get rid of the leader of the café."

Éponine's stomach dropped. She pressed her head harder against the door, but it was silent amongst the three men. And then she heard retreating footsteps and a chuckle.

"Very good to know." This time her father spoke. "It makes tomorrow's job much easier."

"It makes things easier for both of us," replied Montparnasse, "I don't have to kill him myself to win Éponine. And if Claquesous fails, soldiers will make easy work of him."

She stepped away from the door, her stomach threatening to heave and heart pounding through her chest. She needed to get to him, but as long as she was with her father, there's nothing she can do. And the truth lay heavily on her.

"They're going to kill him," she muttered.

She felt sick at her own words, her organs, her bones, splintering within her, and she imagined she was bleeding from the inside out. Montparnasse's jealousy was insatiable. By her own heart, she had inadvertently marked Enjolras for death. She hugged her arms about herself and went to the bed and sat on it. Azelma went to the door and listened. She could hear the men outside. They're probably smoking. How gracious of them to spare the room and them the stink of rancid smoke.

Looking back at Éponine, her sister asked, "Why do you care so much for some bourgeois? What happened to that Marius boy?"

"Marius wasn't real."

"And a revolutionary bourgeois is?" Azelma walked over to her, kneeling down to stare at her.

Éponine could see the sincerity in her eyes. Her sister had always cared for her just as she did. Working with their father did not change that. She would not believe it if it had.

"He loves me," Éponine said.

Azelma scoffed. "Did he tell you this?"

She hesitated, looking down at the red of her dress, missing his coat. "No, but he cares. More than Marius ever did."

"Loving someone and caring about someone are not the same," Azelma replied. "What makes him different from the clients you took to bed?"

Éponine looked back up at her, staring into her sister's dark eyes. "Everything."

She rolled her eyes.

"The clients that fucked me were never allowed to kiss me," Éponine said. "I never let them even if they tried." At this, her little sister was quiet, and so she continued, "He was a different sort of client."

"Montparnasse said you slept with him."

Éponine shook her head, smiling lightly at the idea. "We only talked."

She snorted, stifling a chuckle, "What sort of man goes to a prostitute just to talk?"

Éponine glared at her sister, a warning, and Azelma quieted, her features shifting to show that she had her attention, that she was serious.

"An honorable one," Éponine said.

Azelma shrugged, disinterested at the thought. "So what?"

"It's more than that. He cares for me, I know he does," she paused. "I even let him kiss me."

Azelma blinked, her brows furrowing.

"It's the truth," Éponine insisted. He'd come to her that night after pillaging, after murder. _We shared a kiss, and he promised to take care of me._

Azelma eyed her, her expression soft despite her skepticism. "Do you love him?"

She said nothing, her heart thumping in her chest. She could not say that was what she felt. She wasn't entirely sure, but Éponine was confident enough to believe there was something. That something made her feel warm, made her feel happy, made her feel human. She liked it. She wished she was away, she wished to be with him, to see him before the fighting tomorrow. She rubbed her lips together, Enjolras' name on her tongue as she remembered that night. _He stole a kiss and left me nothing but a bloody coat._


	8. Chapter 8

Ch 8

The revolution began as the soldiers and drummers and mourners took to the streets, a spectacle, a sham of a funeral as Lamarque's body was paraded through the streets of Paris, the final insult, salt on bloody wounds to suffering citizens as they clamored to watch their hero's body in a horse-drawn carriage go by. Enjolras, the Amis, including Marius, and other revolutionary groups ignited in a fury, stormed through the tension of the funeral, seizing control of the entire affair as they sought to convince citizens to join them. And Éponine could not be there to witness it, to stand beside Enjolras for his cause, whether she believed in it or not. Instead she was with her father, sister, and Montparnasse walking through the crowds of people on the Rue Plumet. The people either sought the comfort and safety of their homes, or to spy Lamarque's body before he was taken away for good, but by their confusion, Éponine wasn't sure if they had any sense of direction. They seemed lost, like empty shells that compulsively wandered.

But that did not matter to her father or Montparnasse, for they knew well enough that with the rebellion starting no law could touch them. And they were not the only ones participating in such anarchy and mayhem. She could disappear, she thought, vanish into the crowd like the ghosts they were, but Montparnasse kept a watchful eye on her to prevent the very thought.

The section of the street they walked was familiar to Éponine. She had taken this path from the alley to reach Cosette's house. And then she quickly realized exactly who her father planned to rob, and she held her tongue, smirking from the irony of it.

In the bright sunlight of the mid morning the gang reached the house. They went around to the garden and easily broke the chain that kept the gate locked. Trampling over plants and flowers, Montparnasse approached the backdoor, burying his crowbar into the space between the door and frame. Azelma kept watch at the garden gate as Montparnasse pried open the door, snapping the wood. The three entered the house, sacks over the men's shoulders and a bat in Thénardier's hand to accompany Montparnasse's crowbar.

While Montparnasse rummaged through cabinets and drawers, digging for whatever valuables he could find, Thénardier searched the house, his heavy footsteps echoing off the wood floor, looking for the people that had already fled. Cosette and her father and even that maid were days gone, and Éponine hid the smile creeping across her face as her father darted up the stairs, growling in frustration. She looked about the house while absent mindedly placing random, worthless items that had been left behind into the sacks on the floor. How she had dreamed of a house like this, filled with lovely treasures and essentials to live suitable, comfortably, happily. But she could not think of that, not while knowing she was here, not while Enjolras is fighting, not when he could die. She scratched her palms, her fingers, her nerves taking over as she struggled to swallow the guilt she felt.

Montparnasse tore down various paintings that still hung, ripping the canvases in his search, destroying whatever value the paintings had. Thénardier rushed down the stairs, gripping his bat hard, letting it banging against the stairs, snarling all the way back to Montparnasse. "They aren't here."

"And there's not much to take." Montparnasse replied bitterly, "They abandoned the place. This was an entire waste of time just as I said it would!"

"He was here before!" Thénardier yelled, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, "How was I to know he'd leave?"

"That doesn't matter! We took a risk coming here, and I don't see any profit."

Azelma then came in from the garden, and everyone turned, startled by the look in her large, fearful eyes. "It's the police! Javert is leading them!"

"Merde!" Thénardier spat, and he and Montparnasse scrambled to pick up the sacks of what little they stole.

They ran. Montparnasse tugged on Éponine's arm, refusing to let her go as the gang fled the house. His hand on her upper arm was her shackle, her reminder that she was in a sense his prisoner, that she could not escape them, not while she was in their sights. She thought of Claquesous at Montparnasse's command, so close to Enjolras. What if he already did it? Enjolras could be dead, and she would never know it. She was nauseous, such blood on her hands.

Looking behind her, she could see four men, Javert, who was dressed in civilian clothes, at the head of them, chasing them, shouting feeble commands that would result in their surrender. Time seemed to speed up as they ran, and Éponine could feel it mocking her as she was led through the streets, through the crowds as they struggled to shake the police off their trail. They turned street corners and hid inside an unlocked flat, hoping Javert and his cronies would pass them by. And when the men believed they were safe to come out, Thénardier lead them back through the streets. Long after the morning turned to afternoon, they reached the sewers, a filthy path that would lead them out of the city.

Thénardier handed his bat to Azelma before jumping eight feet down from the upper level they stood on into the pit of sewage, the splashing somehow increasing the vile stench, but he did not shy away as he struggled with the keys—he must have stolen them—to open the gate into the sewer.

"Quick," Montparnasse urged.

"I don't need any reminders." Thénardier replied crossly.

Éponine struggled to wriggle free from the murderer's hold, but that only managed to frustrate him.

"Why do you keep fighting?" He pulled her to him.

She said nothing, glaring at him.

"That bourgeois is dead. And even if he lived he would never settle for you." He was glad to say it, "What did you expect? That he'd love you? Marry you? You're an idiot. I'm the only one you have."

Her mouth turned dry, and her blood had gone cold. Her muscles slacked, and the fight in her was draining. She wondered if his words were true, that Enjolras could never truly love her, that all she had dreamed, all she shared with him was as false as it had been with Marius. But none of that would matter if he is dead. And what if this was all she was meant to have, to end up just as her mother had, unhappy in marriage to a man that amounted to less than a flea. She had hopes just as her mother did, for a grander life and love, and her mother died aspiring to nothing. It would be something like poetic justice, what she deserves, to become her mother. Perhaps she never did have a chance with Enjolras, but she would rather have no one than the murderer, the scum that stood before her. Her heated stare did not waver, and he scoffed at her defiance. He looked like he wanted to strike her, and that did little to frighten her. Her skin, with each beating life inflicted upon her, turned from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Montparnasse was only a trifle.

"Montparnasse, quit your foolin' and help me with the door!" Thénardier shouted from below. "Azelma will watch Éponine for you."

His eyes were reluctant to leave Éponine. He loosened his hold on her before letting her arm go entirely and then turned. He turned his head but before he could complete the motion, Azelma swung the bat with all the force her puny arms could muster, hitting his jaw hard enough that Éponine heard a crack. Montparnasse fell at her feet, the crowbar clattering on the stone ground. Their father called to them from the pit, and the two sisters shared a glance. Beneath the concern in her eyes, there was a fierceness Éponine had never seen in her sister before as she leaned down, taking the crowbar away from the unconscious Montparnasse, whose mouth now dripped red with blood. Sloshing from below and Thénardier was coming up the ramp. Azelma nodded to her sister as she stood to her feet, turning her back to her, gripping both the bat and crowbar.

"Thank you," Éponine whispered before running in the opposite direction.

She took to the streets, panting hard, feet pounding against the cobblestone. It did not take long before her energy depleted, her muscles aching as she forced herself to run. She'd forgotten that she hadn't eaten in days, nor had she slept. She struggled to keep going. She hadn't the slightest idea of where she was headed, and to make matters worse, road blocks that surrounded the many barricades that had sprung up, hindered her progress. But which barricade was Enjolras commanding? Be quick, every second is precious, and the sun is fading.

There were no soldiers when she snuck passed the road blocks and arrived at a small barricade. The men there shouted for her to halt, and she raised her hands in surrender.

"I'm looking for someone!" She said, breathless. "Enjolras of the ABC."

The men above her on top of the barricades, their rifles pointed at her, looked at each other.

"We know no one by that name." One with a gray cap replied, even toned, a cigar hanging from his mouth.

"M'sieur, are you the in command?"

"I am." He said, lifting his rifle, and the others followed.

"Then you must have met with him sometime before today? To discuss plans? He's a leader of a barricade just as you are." Éponine pressed.

"Aye, I met with leaders. But no one by that name came by."

She hesitated, unable to find words to convey her confusion. "But that's impossible, m'sieur!" He hasn't come back to her because of those meetings. The man in the cap was lying. He must be! Where else could Enjolras be if not fighting for the stability of France? Or is it possible that perhaps his friends lied to her that night? The leader sent her away, suggesting she get somewhere safe as she left.

Her heart seemed to turn her limbs to lead, struggling against the overwhelming sense of hopelessness. There are so many barricades all across Paris, how could she know which he is stationed at? She will find him before it was too late. She ran again, her feet pouding with the reminder that she could be too late. Claquesous may have already reached him. Or perhaps he died this morning when the fighting started. Panic seeped into her bones. But she kept going, her mind screaming: _all my fault, all my fault, all my fault_.

Sunset was coming as she advanced passed another road block. She hadn't the fondest idea of where she was, too preoccupied, too frazzled, unable to concern herself with anything else. Another barricade was close. She turned the street corner and then promptly stepped back, her head peering out just enough to see and hopefully not be spotted. Gavroche was climbing over the barricade to reach the side opposite of the revolutionaries. He jogged in her direction, oblivious to her presence, a letter in his hand.

"Gavroche!" She whispered.

His head snapped to stare at her as she beckoned to him. If he was surprised, he did not show it while he disappeared from line of sight of the revolutionaries keeping watch on the barricade. A brown cap sat up the boy's dark chestnut hair, his face covered in dirt and sweat.

"What are you doing here?" Éponine asked.

"I'd ask the same of you." Gavroche replied simply.

She hadn't the time for formalities. Night is coming. "Are you returning to Enjolras' barricade?"

"Yeah. Courfeyrac sent me on an errand."

"Is Enjolras all right?"

His eyes narrowed, puzzled. "Everyone was okay when I left."

Her heart jumped, alive again. She fought against her overwhelming excitement, composing her features.

"Please Gavroche, take me to the barricade."


	9. Chapter 9

Ch 9

Gavroche led her through Paris, avoiding the road blocks, darting into alleyways, racing as night rose and the sun disappeared. She could hear the pounding footsteps of hundreds of marching men, and then they suddenly stopped. We must be close, she thought. She can reach him before the real fighting starts, before Claquesous. They were close to the Musain. Gavroche led her through an alley to the street the building stood, but before they could take the street, the passing National Guard blocked their path, the dark figures bobbing against the black background. The torches they carried flickered as they walked, sparks spitting from the torches to dance as they went. Out of sight, Gavroche and Éponine waited for the men to pass, her heart hammering in her chest as the soldiers stepped in and out of view. There are so many against so few. She had warned him, but Enjolras did not listen. Even if citizens did stand with the Amis, they would never be enough against the might of the National Guard.

"Why do you want to join us? Why do you suddenly care about the revolution?"Gavroche asked.

"I had a change of heart," Éponine said, harsher than she intended. "Why does it matter? They need the help."

He shrugged, "Yes, but you could get hurt."

"So could you."

"If I die, it's for something I believe in." He replied with ease. "You don't believe in anything. Except Maruis."

Her heart spoke for her. "I believe in Enjolras."

And when the last of the men marched by, Gavroche led her up the street, the opposite direction of the barricade. They ran up and turned on to the next street, passed the buildings and turned into the closest next alley. Their path curved and bended, constraining from the walls and trash build-up as they walked, and then the alley came to an abrupt end.

"What now?" Dread loomed over her.

Her little brother pointed to the space between the buildings. "There."

Wood crates made the gap a little less obvious, but the gap was narrow. Gavroche would have no problem squeezing through, but the same could not necessarily be said for Éponine. Still, she would let it break her bones if it meant getting through. Gavroche climbed the crates which creaked and wobbled, and he slid in between the space. He hopped down, his bare feet slapping against the hard ground. Éponine cautiously climbed the crates, her body hunched forward as she gripped the walls of both buildings. She sized herself between the buildings and moved carefully to make sure she fit. It was easier than she thought as she jumped down onto the other side. Relief filled her.

Gavroche smiled up at her. "Just promise me you won't allow yourself to get hurt. You know the way out."

Éponine smiled. "You too, little brother." Under different circumstances, they could have bonded like true siblings. They could have been family.

Then shouts echoed, bouncing off the buildings, and her relief vanished in a puff of smoke as a gunshot erupted like thunder. She and her brother stood motionless, breath held, waiting for the onslaught of gunfire. But nothing more came. Their exhales quivered. They continued on, Éponine trailing behind Gavroche, and not too long after, a barrage of gunfire shook through Paris. The battle started, and Éponine was nowhere near where she wanted to be. They ran as quickly as they could through the narrow passage that was only a shoulder length wide. The alley seemed to continue forever, and Éponine feared she would never reach him in time as she raced to beat the bullets through the jagged path like one through a forest. The fighting grew louder, and she finally reached the back entrance of the Musain.

Gavroche sought to hide inside the walls of the café. Éponine followed behind him and watched as he darted behind the bar. The café tables were covered with white sheets, and the chairs had been taken away, perhaps to become part of the barricade. A body already lay on one of those white tables, fresh blood streaked across the floor, staining the sheet scarlet. Eponine recognized the man lying on the table, Mabeuf. He had given her charity. The trickling of blood was haunting, red slipping, splattering, pooling below the table. Drip, drip, drip.

Sharp breathing came from the left. Tied to the staircase, Javert sat, a prisoner of the revolutionaries, still wearing his civilian clothes. He did not look at her, his eyes to the floor, not that she cared to be noticed. And on the other side of the double doors, the fighting took place, the men shouting and clamoring, struggling to refill their rifles as the National Guard attempted to climb the barricade.

Éponine opened the doors and walked out into the chaos, the smell of smoke and gunpowder overtaking her other senses, eyes narrowing as clouds of smoke thickened, making it difficult to distinguish the men about her, even in the torchlight all about the barricade. She spotted Marius jumping down from the barricade, Courfeyrac and the rest of the men fighting back against the Guard. And then she saw Enjolras, and the world seemed to slow as her heart pounded, relief overcoming her. He was up on the barricade standing beside pole, red flag raised, a rifle pressed against his shoulder. He's alive. She wasn't too late.

The hulking figure of Claquesous came into view, almost as if out of the smoke itself. Unnoticed by the rest who were focused on the battle before them, he pulled out his pistol, aiming for Enjolras' back.

"No!" Éponine yelled, her feet moving faster than she could think. She reached for the gun with both hands, struggling to pull it from Claquesous who cursed at Éponine. She wrestled for the gun, calling for Enjolras in the smoke and in the fire, amongst the dead and dying, the barricade of bodies. Claquesous shoved and pushed against her, the screams of dying men in her ears, and then she saw a flash, sparks spiting from the gun, unable to hear anything except a high pitched ringing. She had been flung back, her body landing on hard wood, her eyes to the midnight sky. She wheezed. Unbearable pain tore through her, rendering her still. She opened her mouth, her lungs forcing a sound from her mouth that she could not hear. Her vision wavered. The ringing caused her head to ache, and she was faintly sure someone called out "murderer".

She did not know how long she laid there until she somehow found the strength to move her arms, lifting them to the source of such terrible pain at her stomach. Her fingers felt it, something thick and wet soaking the velvet, something pooling—she lifted her hand, straining to see—red, red worms slowly creeping down her fingers, her hand, her wrist, crawling under her dress. She groaned softly and despite the pain, she managed to slowly lift herself up from the wood that supported her to stand on the ground, her head lolling to the side, fighting the pain, fighting for breath. She looked around, eyes scanning for Enjolras, and across the way she saw golden curls coming down from the barricade. She took a step, desperate to call for him but only feeble grunts of pain left her as she struggled to walk. From her footsteps followed small crimson pools, and a faint, haunting sound. _Drip, drip, drip._

"Éponine?"

Her feet gave out beneath her, a sigh and a hiss escaping her lips as she felt herself fall, only to be caught by gentle arms.

"Éponine? Éponine, what's happened?" It was Marius that held her, sitting with her in the middle of the barricade.

 _No, no, not you,_ she thought, her eyes glancing for Enjolras. She opened her mouth to speak, to say his name, but instead she found herself choking, coughing, gasping. _It hurts too much Enjolras,_ she thought _. I can see the crows. But I don't want them. It's too soon. Oh, oh, let me look at him again._ She did not see Marius as he stared down her in earnest, did not see the men that gathered around her, each face not belonging to Enjolras. She lifted her hand, arm outstretched, nearly grazing the ground, her vision tossing shadows, gray and orange. She twisted and writhed, coughing as she did, wheezing, blood bubbling from her mouth _Where is he?_ Tears ran red and white that burned like vinegar. _Kiss me again. Make the pain go away._

"Enj—" She choked, eyes rolling back, blinking as she tried to keep them open.

"Eponine?"

The voice that spoke her name did not belong to Marius, but she could not recognize its owner. She had forgotten her own voice, forgotten everything but his name. She heard cawing, talons tearing at her flesh, a feast for crows. _Don't let them take me Enjolras!_ She wheezed, blood dripping from her lips. She thought she heard someone say "Éppie," and she turned her head, and everything turned black and cold.


	10. Chapter 10

Ch 10

The National Guard had paraded the bruised and bloodied Jehan in front of the men behind the barricade, revealing their friend they had captured nights before and offering truce in exchange for surrender. But the National Guard hardly offered Enjolras and the others the chance to discuss their options. Instead they flaunted Jehan before dragging him by the collar, an animal for slaughter, the man's arms gripping the wrist of the soldier that took him. He kicked and screamed, and Enjolras and the rest of the Amis stood helpless behind their barricade as they watched the National Guard haul their friend away. His screams shook Enjolras to the core, his heart hammering in his chest as he watched Jehan struggle and scream. The soldiers took Jehan around the corner, the orange flames in the night and the flickering shadows that accompanied them were all that could be seen as Jehan screamed.

"Bastards!" Joly yelled.

"Murderers!" Lesgle roared.

"You didn't give us time!" Came Combeferre.

"Truce! Truce!" Enjolras shouted.

But the gunshots rang out anyway, their pleas for nothing.

Enjolras could not be sure who shot the first bullet, which side officially started the battle he now found himself in. Nevertheless, he blamed was the National Guard. They, who executed their friend before they could surrender, were the reason for the bloodshed now. And the battle was vicious and relentless as bodies dropped dead and the dying wriggled and screamed in agony. He had not considered the true horror of fighting. He had known of it, heard the stories and read of valiant fights and heroes, but to experience it first hand, the blood and the gore, the sheer fear as a man knew his death was near was unlike anything he had imagined. Stories don't tell of brave men shitting themselves as they stared down the barrel of a gun. They don't tell of the stench and the piss and the blood and the bodies.

From up above, as Enjolras hid to refill his rifle, Mabeuf, a humble Parisian citizen, stood on the barricade, defending the red flag of revolution, of freedom. And before he could blink, a bullet hit Mabeuf, his head tilting back to the black sky and stepped back. He fell from the barricade, his body smashing hard against stone, blood turning the ground to burgundy. Enjolras stared wide-eyed, his mouth agape, rage threatening to overtake his fear. He turned away from the body as Joly and Combeferre lugged Mabeuf's body away, blood leaving thick streaks behind. He took Mabeuf's spot beside the flag.

Shouts rang out, loud bangs, screams, gunfire, his senses overrun as adrenaline took control. Smoke wafted up his nose, clouded his vision, his fingertips burning as he pulled the trigger, sparks spitting from the rifle. He struggled to keep his mind from submitting to frenzy as men died all around him. A shot for Mabeuf, a shot for Jehan. All the more for Éponine.

And then shouts hindered gunfire, and across the barricade Marius held a torch to a keg of gunpowder. _Marius, you fool,_ Enjolras thought, licking his lips. _You'll kill us all._

He remained standing on top of the barricade as he watched the National Guard retreat. He waited, breathing heavily as he lowered his rifle, and he could feel the stickiness of sweat beading on his forehead. He then heard a young voice, too young to be from the Amis, cry out, "Murderer!" He frowned. What now when the fighting has ceased? Enjolras climbed down the barricade, leaving his gun to rest against it on the ground, his expression stern as he noticed his friends gathering around Marius. Perhaps to berate him on his recklessness. But before he could get to the group, he noticed Le Cabuc, a citizen volunteer like Mabeuf, was on his knees, his hands up in surrender, the large man forced down at gunpoint by Courfeyrac and a teary-eyed Gavorache.

"Gavroche says he's actually Claquesous from the Patron-Minette gang," said Courfeyrac.

"He killed Éponine," the boy said.

Enjolras' eyes widened, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach, and he was sure it had stopped entirely. His insides tingled with fading warmth, horror stopping his breath. He did not look at the men before him. The world around him seemed to slow, blood pumping in his ears. _That cannot be,_ he thought. _She was never here, she can't have died._ He walked over to the crowd around Marius, pushed passed them, a step in front of them as he stared down at Marius. And there she was, raven hair, porcelain skin, red, and bloody, a pool of crimson beneath her.

This isn't real. He had just seen her a few nights ago. He stared down at Éponine, her skin sickly pale as blood seeped from her abdomen. She gasped and groaned, her eyes struggling to remain open. He cursed under his breath, hating whatever forces that led her here to die.

She stretched her arm out as if waiting for someone to take it, unable to speak though she struggled to do so. She laid there in Marius' arms, and Enjolras grit his teeth, despising him. Marius had no right to touch her, to hold her, to breathe her air. _Take her from him, clutch her close. Tell her everything before it's too late._ Enjolras wished to take his place, but she would resent him for it. Éponine had longed for this, to be in the arms of the man she loved. Enjolras had no right to take that from her. He never had a chance. Marius was the only one she wanted. She made it clear that night in her bedroom.

His eyes burned wet as he again helplessly stood, watching Éponine choke for seconds more of life, his heart longing, dissolving to ash as he watched her fight for air and cough on her own blood, a red line dripping from her lips. She shook her head, wriggling in Marius' arms, perhaps from the pain. Enjolras would do anything to turn time to prevent this, to end her agony now, to save her life. But the reality of it could not be wished away; lingering thoughts of "if only" could not save her.

"Put an end to it," someone behind him mumbled solemnly.

His lips parted at the thought, a mercy killing. Would he be able to pulling the trigger?

She then choked out and he thought he heard her say his name.

"Éponine?" He said, stepping forward, some feeble hope stirring in him. "Éppie?"

And her head turned, and he held his breath as she looked at him. How quickly her eyes turned, glazed and unseeing, vacant and empty, void of life. She was dead. Enjolras turned, his heart pounding again with a fiery wrath as he violently, uncaringly pushed back his friends. His eyes were ablaze, his expression hard, unwavering, blood boiling beneath his skin hot enough to burn through to the outside. His teeth showed as he approached Courfeyrac, snatching the pistol from his hands, pointing it at Claquesous, the brute's eyes widening. "No wait—"

"Step back," Enjolras ordered Courfeyrac and Gavroche, and seeing his pure rage, without hesitation they moved out of range of the gun.

No one said a word, no one stopped him as he fired the first shot into Claquesous, the bullet piecing the man's face, and he collapsed with his back to the stone. Everyone remained silent as he threw the gun down, depleted of its one bullet, useless, and took his own rifle that lay on the ground. After firing his own into the dead man, he turned and took the rifles and guns from each of his friends, eight more weapons for eight more bullets that he released into the dead man's face, leaving Claquesous unrecognizable. Enjolras yelled as he shot him again and again, screaming out his passion, hatred, devastation, pain like fire to render all of Paris to cinders. Blood and flesh and bone, the insides of him on the outside was not enough to satisfy Enjolras, not enough to bring back Éponine. He panted, staring down at his work before dropping the last gun and walking up to Marius who now stood holding her in his arms. Enjolras said nothing as he took her from him, holding her close, the rose with unclipped thrones in an embrace he had longed for for so long, her blood immediately turning his clothes red, seeping into his skin, his bones, chilling him.

He took her into the Musain and up the stairs, laying her out on the table. Her eyes had been left open, her lips parted, thoughts on her lips she can now never convey. But Enjolras could. He pulled a chair beside her and sat, staring into those lifeless eyes that can never stare back. He had stared into them often in the past, longingly, though she never seemed to see, not even on the night he left her his coat. Perhaps if he had said more, perhaps if he had kissed her like he wanted to—but what if she rejected him then? What if he had, and she returned it? If he hadn't been so reticent, so cold to her, perhaps she'd still be alive. And if he told her he loved her?

He wanted to touch her, to stroke her hair, her face, to kiss her cold, purple lips lined with blood. But even in her death, he could not allow himself such luxuries, he couldn't betray her, knowing full well that her heart was never his. Gently, he closed her eyelids and placed her hands over her chest.

There was an emptiness inside of him, nothing but a house for bones, a hollow ache, and a sick feeling of nausea as every word she ever spoke to him filled his mind. He shuddered, his body suddenly heavy as marble, and he was trembling. He clenched his fists. "You warned me, Éponine." Enjolras said, "You siad there would be no happy ending here. You warned me, and I didn't listen."

His sigh quivered, his head in his palms, his teeth clamped together, sobs raking through him, holding back another scream. His imminent death loomed over him, his death, his friends' death—all his fault. And yet as that truth took its hold on him, it could not overcome the loss of Éponine. He then jumped up to his feet, viciously gripped the chair and threw it and it smashed against the wall. His hands curled into fists. He paced, and then stopped to look at her. "I wanted to protect you, and I failed!" He hissed a sigh and cursed, shaking, remembering how warm she was in his arms, how beautiful she was beneath him as she touched his cheek. "I shouldn't have left you that night! I shouldn't have forced myself away! I shouldn't have been so petty and spiteful and jealous, and it kept me away from you!" _I thought if I left you for good, it would stunt my pain. If I cut you from me then I could forget._ He rubbed his lips together, forcing a neutral expression, struggling to keep from breaking entirely as he stood above her and stared down at her. _You denied me for Marius again and again and again._ _If not for him, we might have been happy. If Marius hadn't been first, perhaps you might have loved me._

Enjolras remained at her side all night, unable to bring himself to leave. He couldn't leave her, not now. No one will watch over her, no one will mourn. Maruis will never come for her, and Enjolras cannot abandon her. She'll be cold. She'll be alone. He can't do that to her.

It was Joly that came to him as dawn slowly crept up, threatening to reveal his horrible failure to the world.

"Enjolras," he said.

He did not look at him. His eyes could not tear away from Éponine as he leaned over her, his hands on the table, fingers dipped in her cold blood.

Joly hesitated, "I do not pretend to know how much she meant to you. No one knew. But we all know you're grieving."

Enjolras swallowed, his index finger scraping against the wood.

"We need you, my friend. Our fight is not over."

Enjolras closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. "Give me a moment more."

Joly stared at him warily before retreating downstairs, his footsteps echoing as he left. Enjolras' eyes looked over Éponine. The velvet and scarlet had always been lovely on her. But the maroon at her stomach and pale, gray skin disrupted her peaceful image, along with the sharp contrast from her ebony hair. Her dark eyelashes were gentle on her cheeks—how often he wished to kiss her eyelids, her lips chapped—he'd kiss them too had she ever permitted—but instead he had remained complacent with his lonely lot. But now, alone with her, he would allow himself this one small joy to sooth the rot that festered and feasted on his harrowing grief. So he placed a tender kiss on her forehead—he imagined her eyes opening, her body rising from the table to greet him in the morning light—as if it would awaken her like in the fairytales. But she lay motionless beneath his lips. He sniffed, feeling wetness at his eyes again as he pressed his forehead to hers. He then left her, unable to look back.

* * *

Enjolras lay face-up on the wood floor of the Musain, the morning light like a mist through the window. He could smell iron, wet worms dripping from his nose that he knew to be blood. He struggled to move, his limbs twitching as if it would keep him alive. Grantaire was laying silent and still in his peripheral vision. In moments too, he will be just the same.

The dawn had come and death followed in its wake. Enjolras had been injured in the morning's battle. His forehead had been split, wet red gushing from the wound, and blood painted his fingers as he pressed against the hole at his side, his vision blurred, fighting against the pain, heaving for breath. The National Guard had overwhelmed them, slaughtered them. They had stormed the barricade and poured into the Musain, rushed up the stairs in a thunderstorm of pounding footsteps that shook the floorboards. The men in red and blue clamored, harsh words and orders that delirious Enjolras had not a care to comprehend as their rifles turned to aim at him and Grantaire, the last men of the revolution.

Yet, he was not afraid as he stared down an endless line of rifles. He was eerily calm as the seconds slowed, waiting for death to take him. It would be foolish to hope for Éponine to be waiting for him on the other side. So he settled for mild contentment beside the man he had so long despised, the man now, in his final moments, he could call a friend. And as they stood beside each other, unafraid, not alone, Enjolras felt himself turn utterly cold. Éponine, pale and bloody, brushed passed the soldiers, a rifle in her hand. His lips parted in horror. Beautiful Éponine, fierce Éponine, loyal, loving, ruthless Éponine, aimed her rifle at him, and when the trigger was pulled, it was her bullet that hit him first.

And now, here he lay on the Musain floor. He could not hear the footsteps that approached him, too far away in a single memory. She was alive in his arms, warm, safe. Her hand on his cheek was gentle and soothing. If only the memory had been a happy one. He yearned for her kiss.

Éponine stood above him now, bathed in scarlet and sunlit haze, the rifle at her side, her expression neutral, unfeeling. He reached to grip the hem of her dress, but his hand passed right through. He stared up at her, feeling blood flow up his throat. "Éppie," he rasped. She stared back at him, unfazed by his voice, by the name he had given her. She then pointed the rifle at him, and she was all he saw. Then the world flashed white, and Éponine and the world around her slowly faded. And as his vision collapsed to black, he thought he heard the calling of black birds. They too mourned him and his beloved Éponine.

The End

A/N: To be fair everyone, I warned you twice about how this story would be, in both chapters 1 and 2! But you all kept reading and I thank you for it! If you have any questions about anything in this story you can message me here or even at my tumblr account, decembersiris. I may or may not have an answer for you. ;)


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